


Regarding the Nature of Detachment

by Autodidact, jentaro



Series: Leto Does Podfic [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate universe - Mafia, Cis Elias Bouchard, Cis Peter Lukas, Content Warnings By Chapter, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Illustrated, M/M, POV Multiple, Podfic (Chapter 5), Slow Burn, Torture, Trans Jonah Magnus, dangerously intense BDSM, everyone's the same except they also do mafia stuff, monsters being monsters, this gets WEIRD on the sex and DARK on the violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 126,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23059855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autodidact/pseuds/Autodidact, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jentaro/pseuds/jentaro
Summary: The Magnus Institute, an organization built around information about the secrets of this world both paranormal and human, is where the wealthy and wicked go to purchase their leg up on competition. Elias Bouchard does not expect his thirst for knowledge about Captain Lukas of theTundrato have such strong consequences. Peter Lukas, favoured son of the family, will likewise find out how wrong he is about Director Bouchard. They are bothquiteunprepared for how dangerous one man can be.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, past Mordechai Lukas/Jonah Magnus, past Simon Fairchild/Jonah Magnus
Series: Leto Does Podfic [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1890415
Comments: 66
Kudos: 106
Collections: Tigress_Den_Of_Amazing_FanFictions





	1. Sazerac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **STATUS: ON HIATUS**
> 
> This was originally written as an RP, so prepare yourself for a whole lot of POV switching. Spoilers for MAG 158.
> 
> I'd say we're both very sorry for so many things, but we'd be lying.
> 
> Click to view content warnings.

#### 1996.

* * *

At Moorland House, there is a letter waiting for one "Captain Lukas." A foil sticker holds the envelope closed, embossed with the crest of the Magnus Institute: stylized owl, appropriately ominous Latin, year of establishment. This century's answer to the wax seal.

The letterhead is different. If one is especially observant, they could note the absence of "James Wright, Head of the Magnus Institute" and the presence of "Elias Bouchard" proceeding the job title. For those less keen of eye, the tiny drawing at centre-top is of more immediate note. James Wright used to use a stamp for this—a realistic figure of an eye with precisely fourteen upper lashes. On this letter, the shapes are simplified down to two disconnected curves and a circle, coloured in so dark that it bleeds through to the back and threatens to make even the heavy stock thin and fragile from ink. The letterhead is typed but the content is printed out in fountain pen, as if the person writing it would rather be using their cursive but was reluctantly willing to make a concession for ease of legibility. It reads as follows:

Dear Captain Lukas,

We at the Magnus Institute regret to inform you that James Wright, former head of this institution, has passed away. In this difficult time, we would like to extend our deepest condolences to you and the rest of your family. James Wright truly had a passion for his work, and he will be sorely missed. Should you wish to pay your personal respects, he is interred at Brompton Cemetery.

I would like to take the opportunity to introduce myself, Elias Bouchard, as the new Head of the Magnus Institute. I have worked with this institute for over twenty years and wish to ensure that it continues to thrive in the years to come. It is my utmost hope that the partnership that my organization shares with yours continues to support our mutual success.

In terms of day-to-day operation, very little will change. Before his passing, James ensured that I was briefed on the full extent of his duties, both public-facing and private. I feel confident that I am up to the task.

That being said, the Watcher would also like to extend their sympathies and hopes that your family will be in communication soon.

I'm sure that I'll meet you sooner or later at one of the many social functions I'll soon be attending. But should you find yourself in London before then, I would be happy to make a more personalized introduction.

Regards,  
Director Elias Bouchard  
Head of the Magnus Institute

It takes another six weeks before Peter Lukas, heir to the Lukas family, receives the letter, having been out at sea on another _family_ job. 

It is a curious little letter to receive on the weighted paper he recognizes immediately as standard Magnus Institute issue. The feel is as pretentious as the organization itself remains to be, and if not for the letterhead having a different name, he may have tossed it aside completely to be forgotten. The only correspondence Peter cares for is from the Watcher, usually, since information tends to be much more valuable than pleasantries. At least to himself, the rest of his family may or may not disagree depending on who is asked. 

Reading the letter over, he has no particular feelings about Wright’s passing. The few times he had interacted with him had been as acquaintances due to their mutual line of business, and usually at a stuffy suited affair that Peter had no fondness for. And whoever Elias Bouchard may be, he sounds just as boring and stuffy. Twenty years of work history at the Institute? Another old codger to be replaced in a few years' time, he is sure. But politeness mandates a response back, _annoyingly._

On the Lukas branded stationery with as good a hand as he can manage without putting too much effort, he writes back:

Dear Mr. Bouchard,

I am sorry to hear of Mr. Wright’s passing, my condolences to the Watcher, to yourself, and the Institute who have no doubt lost a great man. I will pass along the news to my family. It is good to hear you are ready to take on his responsibilities, and my family looks forward to keeping up our arrangements and agreements. I have no doubt that you will be a suitable replacement if he thought so himself. 

I must say though that I am rather elusive, and getting me into London proper is an impossible task on even the most special occasions. Black tie affairs are also not my forte, but I am sure we will meet eventually.

Captain Lukas

Short, sweet, and to the point. He seals the letter in a matching envelope and sends it off to be mailed back to _Elias Bouchard._ The name is far too ostentatious sounding for his tastes.  
  


* * *

  
Jonah Magnus was not much of one for straying too far from home. So much of himself being tied to physical locations, and paranoia being the Beholding's purview, he didn't much like to leave. His Archivist is there to hold down the fort, as it were, though he isn't sure whether her less-supervised presence there is a more of a comfort or a concern.

Probably the former. There could still be some library-destroying maniacs in town.

Throughout the ceremony Elias' attention had been intermittently drifting back across the ocean to ease his mind. But here at the reception, with time zones being what they were, his institute's staff have gone home for an evening's rest.

The thing about weddings was that they were full of distractions. Music, decor, fashion, drink, food, chatter. A Fairchild wedding especially—bombastic was the word of the day. Elias isn't focusing on any of this. He's much more concerned with the _company._

A new identity was a new opportunity to make social connections. He is the fresh face of the Magnus Institute, here to offer his congratulations to dear Harriet and her new spouse. The Fairchilds are major players in his world, and the more of them could be considered allies, the better.

All of this is how Elias Bouchard finds himself sitting on a small decorative bench with an excellent view of the tables and the dance floor. A plate of finger foods acquired from the buffet is delicately balanced on the leg of his white linen trousers. He'd taken a bit of everything and is working his way through them morsel by morsel, trying to figure out what this body found most palatable. Just another gentleman doing a bit of people-watching.

Peter on the other hand _dreaded_ this day from the moment he had received the invitation. Though he would in fact call Simon a friend, especially considering their families’ alliance, the whole party scene after something so painfully intimate as a wedding? Not his strong suit. 

Though the sea surrounded them in all directions on this small island, he was half a world away from his precious ship, having been flown out in a private jet just for the occasion. He had put up with Simon the whole way, the incorrigible old man begging him to take a hop out of the plane with him while thousands of kilometres in the air. A hearty "no thank you" hadn't been enough to discourage him, but thankfully he had lost interest when the flight concierge had come by with drinks.

The ceremony had been _boring_ , though, Harriet and her groom certainly made the picture-perfect pair. Extravagant setup to say the least, Simon had gone all out for her special day with no expense spared down to providing every single guest with their own personalized evening wear. That is how Peter found himself in a heather grey suit at Simon’s extreme insistence that he don it. The fit was technically perfect, but the _feel_ was not nearly comfortable for someone of his more… gruff nature. 

Still, this would all be over soon enough, and Peter would enjoy the open bar for as long as he could stand being here before he would choose to retire for the night. Sitting at the end of the bar, out of the way and as far away from the speakers on the dance floor as he can be, Peter instead starts looking over the crowd. Lots of familiar faces, of course, that's a _given_. But there is _one_ person he doesn't recognize more than any other people he hasn't seen before.

Sitting deliciously _alone_ across the open area. His eyes were scanning the room, and Peter could see the slight tap of his finger against the plate he's holding. A nervous newbie? Perhaps someone he might be able to feed off of, or at the very least take a _bite_ out of. Metaphorically, of course, clearly there's a reason he's here, and it would do no good to whisk him away permanently.

Downing the rest of his drink, Peter flags over the bartender to refill his drink, watching his target for the evening openly and trying to decide how he would pounce.

Outside of his patron's place of power, the weight of constant scrutiny sits lighter on Elias' shoulders. The many decades of exposure had transformed that feeling from terror, to unease, to inconvenience, and finally to productive alertness. Knowing that he was being watched made him carry himself differently and kept him attentive to his tasks. Elias notices the absence, which is why he so keenly notices a prick of its presence back again.

Elias' gaze tracks the source to the person waiting at the bar. He has an excellent mind for faces, but this one isn't in his collection yet. Younger than—no, _older_ than him, or of comparable age. Elias doesn't notice any other company with him. Perfect.

Elias spends a minute watching this person watching him, intermittently averting his gaze to eat and observe the rest of the crowd. Upon seeing that his observer's attention hasn't flagged in the time it took for another drink to be made, Elias shapes his mouth into an awkward, crooked smile. That of a person squirming under all of the attention.

To top it off, Elias gifts this stranger the memory of a person (himself) ordering a drink at another similar event. _This looks like a man who prefers his Scotch neat._

Peter spends a while more watching from behind his glass, more brazenly now. He has more sense than to exert the full will of the Lonely here where so many of his peers will recognize what is happening, but he does single himself out and reach out just enough that the man catches his eye. And he _squirms_ , just a little bit, from Peter looking at him so thoroughly. 

Absently, he wonders what a man like that drinks. At first he thinks maybe something fruity, perhaps with rum? _No,_ or he would already have a drink on him—that sort of person would go to the bar first and _often_. Perhaps instead with brandy? With a suit like that, it would seem like a right guess, but then he has the gentle thought that he may be wrong. The conclusion he almost draws is a whiskey sour, but, no, he's a _Scotch_ man. Neat. So before the bartender can attend to anyone else, he pulls him back to him and orders it.

As soon as the extra glass is placed down, Peter grabs it, and his own, and heads over to where the stranger is sitting. Not without getting accosted on the way by a very brave and _very_ drunk Fairchild relative asking if he's having a good time. Annoying that he is forced to be polite and answer that yes, he is having fun at this beautiful wedding (needlessly expensive and showy, the kind of event that gives him _hives_ ), when his fun is just about to get started he hopes. 

Free from his jailer as her attention is pulled elsewhere, Peter finally makes his way to the wayward bench where he is somewhat _glad_ that the man hadn't moved from. He takes the liberty of sitting without asking, instead offering out the glass of alcohol as he says, “Thought you could use a drink.”

Over the course of the stranger's forced social interaction (Elias agrees, it is _certainly_ rude to accost a man with a destination and two drinks in his hands with small talk), Elias migrates the plate to sit on the less spacious side of the bench. If his observer was going to be bold enough to sit, then he could very well do so just a _tad_ too close. Which he is. Lovely.

Elias accepts the drink with feigned hesitance in his body language, as if he hadn't watched the bartender make it. He sips it slow to give his companion a chance to get a closer read on him. Lightweight glasses, hair just starting to grey at the temples. Shiny robin's egg shirt—definitely not the sort of thing he'd typically wear. The very dark navy tie worked through with a lighter shade of thread seemed more on the mark, as was the little bit of embellishment on the gold tie bar that _could_ be considered eye-shaped if one were feeling generous. Again, concessions.

"Good guess," Elias tells him with the smallest of grins. He transfers the drink over to his other hand to free it for a proper handshake. "Elias Bouchard. Are you one of Harriet's guests?"

Peter watches his hesitance with the glass, feeling a smug sense of satisfaction when he is told his assumption was a good guess. Of course it is, he is _rarely_ wrong. 

“Oh, Mr. Bouchard! I did get your letter,” Peter says, giving him a firm handshake. His hands are just about as soft as he would expect from a paper pusher turned Head of The Magnus Institute. “Captain Lukas,” giving his own introduction. “It seems you have caught me at a function sooner rather than later. Harriet’s grandfather Simon is an old friend of mine, and of course of my family.” That goes without saying, of course, but considering Elias Bouchard is a new player on the scene, a bit of exposition probably helped. “I tend to avoid weddings, I’m not really one for celebrations. But I am sure they are hoping you are enjoying yourself.”

Sitting close to one another, Peter has a better look at him. Bouchard is a bit younger than himself, the ghost of grey hair showing up betraying how young he looks. Or perhaps it is the other way around? He isn't quite sure, but the way he is dressed is very proper for the occasion in comparison to Peter himself.

"Ah, wonderful. I haven't had the chance to have a proper chat with Simon yet. It'll be interesting, I bet, given the kinds of stories we have about him back in London." Elias notices that he doesn't have to speak as loud to be heard over the room's chatter, which a part of him is thankful for.

Before receiving confirmation, Elias had a theory that this man might just be a Lukas. Genetics were a factor—his features aren't an unfamiliar sort—but also the way that the sweltering tropical heat seems to recede in his presence. Which is quite nice, actually.

'Caught' is a notable word choice, and the impression it conveys is further supported by what Captain Lukas goes on to say. From Elias' past experience, the Lukases tended to have complicated relationships with social events. He's curious about what this one's opinion is. _Fancy yourself hard to corner, do you._

Elias knew that he was potentially getting himself into trouble by accepting a drink and humouring this man. "I am enjoying myself, thank you." He lets his posture relax into the bench, indulges himself with drink, and half-returns to his people-watching.

But Elias Bouchard is _new_ , and free to make the unwise decision to see where it would lead. He doesn't have a reputation yet and 'an easy mark' is a useful one to cultivate. "It's nice to have the chance to take in all of this from a more comfortable distance. There's a lot to keep track of when you have to introduce yourself a dozen times and don't have a companion to share the load."

Bouchard’s word choice is… interesting, as if expecting Peter to play host and introduce him to others, and truly, he has no desire to be his chauffeur for conversations. As it is, he's using his own powers to keep the heat at bay and muffle the rest of the room for himself, having nearly had enough of the festivities for the night. Alcohol was the only reason he'd stuck around, but he supposes he can suffer a bit more conversation with this man. 

“Don't worry, I am sure in time, you will be _quite_ well acquainted with the room,” Peter says, sweeping his free hand idly to gesture to the rest of the people _he_ knows and has already made nice to. “The Fairchilds as a whole are as eccentric as this whole shindig suggests, and they will talk your ear off if you happen to bump into one.”

Taking a sip of his own drink, he side-eyes the relaxed posture of Elias, relaxing his own hunch just a little more before taking a look around the room. He can at least point out some notable people for him, but that's as far as he is willing to go. “I am sure you have seen Simon, but over _there,_ ” Peter points, “Bright red suit, huge lad. That’s Jared Hopworth. He’s an inside to the Ukrainians, does some pretty nasty work for them. He likes to talk about bones and the limitations of the human body.”

Turning his body to scan the crowd, his knee ends up lightly bumping into Bouchard’s, but he ignores it and points to someone else. “Dark skin, blonde hair, gaudy purple feathered dress? Annabelle Cane, she will immediately ask your opinion of spiders, and if it is not positive, well… You can figure that one out on your own, Mr. Bouchard.”

Elias allows his attention to be directed about the room according to the Captain's wishes. Not quite what he was angling at, but Elias is certain he can circle them back around. At least listening to him speak is pleasant. Mr. Lukas has a voice leaning high for his broad frame, especially when being this genial in his speaking. That in conjunction with its gravelly quality made it unique, and Elias is happy hearing old information come to him through that filter. He makes the appropriate little nods and noises of assent and scowls when Mr. Lukas pauses. "Oh, _lovely._ You know, between them and speaking with Mr. Molina and Ms. Perry earlier, I'm starting to think that this may just be a very dangerous place."

Elias fills the space it takes him to chew on his thoughts by popping a pancetta-and-pastry thing into his mouth and washing it down with a bit of the Scotch, which honestly isn't bad. "No wonder the Watcher would rather send her proxy along instead of actually attending," he quietly, guiltily, admits.

“ _Her_ place? I always assumed the Watcher was a ‘he’. Interesting.” The Watcher remains the biggest secret of The Magnus Institute, nobody quite knowing who they are nor if the title is handed down to different generations of the Head of the Institute or what. But Peter isn't going to think too hard about that right now, going back to what Bouchard said first.

“Mr. Molina and Ms. Perry are both quite the characters, and you would do well to never mention anything about someone named Agnes.” Pausing to take another swig of his drink, he relaxes back on the bench, elbows up on the back. “However, your assumption is _right_ , this is _quite_ a dangerous crowd to keep. Now I’m not so sure that James Wright prepped you as well as he could have about who frequents this circle. You should make some allies while you have a chance. Fairchild is a good bet, as is Cane. I would stay away from Rayner, the one who looks blind. He is certainly nothing but trouble.” Peter points him out too, the older white man sitting at one of the tables in conversation with someone or other.

Elias simply shrugs. "These are modern times. People assume a lot of things." The pronoun game is a fun one to play, especially during a change in management. It makes it much easier to track who is sharing information with whom. As a personal preference, Elias enjoys watching the rumour mill spin and is glad to give it a good push every so often.

Listening, Elias keeps his barbed comments to himself. These were just opinions of a man trying to be helpful. "How do you get by?" Elias shifts his body to face Lukas more directly. "Staying out of trouble, I mean. I haven't noticed anyone here with you to keep you in check." Elias' eyes turn pointedly to Lukas' left hand and the absence of a wedding ring. Trying to keep things lighthearted.

Peter doesn't miss how Bouchard’s body turns more into his, nor does he miss the look toward his left hand. Part of him then wonders about _his_ marital status, glancing quickly at his ring finger and seeing nothing. He won't make assumptions though, especially since he can sense that though his temporary companion is alone, he might not be worth the trouble of conquering for the night or otherwise to feed off of. 

Reigning himself in, he says, “Ah, well, I keep to myself as much as I can. Don't have to pry me from terrible outcomes if I don't get into them in the first place. I tend to repel anyone who might have even a passing interest in me, which is well enough, not looking for any of that nonsense.” Unmarried, unclaimed, and unwilling to entertain relationships in any sense.

Make no mistake, Elias is absolutely listening while he's polishing off the remainder of his Scotch. And Watching, too, from the tie pin. Oh, Captain Lukas has a policy of non-involvement, does he.

"And yet you're friends with _Simon Fairchild,_ of all people." Elias sets the glass down on his thigh and drums his fingers against it. Really quite at odds with his rapier gaze sliding into Mr. Lukas' head. "Wearing his clothes, even," and the hum of it sounds _off._

Elias doesn't let him suffer like that for very long, though. He blinks. When Elias continues, his voice has much more cheer to it. "Which makes it _curious_ to me how you can maintain a policy like that around a man seemingly _made_ of terrible decisions. I don't see you off trying to keep him in check."

A very… precise observation. Almost eerily so, but well, that's sort of what he expects of the Head of The Magnus Institute. A little bit wicked, giving him whiplash when his tone changes back to casual and almost _jovial_ for his scrutiny. Peter chuckles quietly, eyeing Bouchard’s empty glass and _almost_ wanting to offer getting him a refill. Almost. Especially as he finishes off his own glass with a sigh. Something about this feels _off_ , and though he is surrounded by people with quite the array of power, Peter blames this on the alcohol. Perhaps he should call it.

“You seem to think I have willingly gotten myself into this arrangement of being close with Fairchild. If I were not born a Lukas, I am sure that I would have never crossed paths with him. I am also not his keeper; I’m afraid that his thrill-seeking disposition is not for me.” He is reminded of being asked to jump from the jet such a short time ago, barely holding back a shudder for the thought of plummeting through the sky for hours at Simon’s beck and call.

"No? Hm, fair enough." Lukas takes his observations in stride better than Elias had anticipated, but he can't find it in him to be too annoyed about it. That's what he gets for trying to get under his skin by using a relationship, he supposes. Not the tact to take in the future around Mr. Lukas.

"More of a true family man, then? Bringing your home out to sea." Now that he's looking for it, Elias can tell that the Captain wears his evening suit not _poorly,_ per se, but not that well either. "'The Tundra' is such a _sober_ name."

The suit comment went quite over his head, knowing that he was not the only one to be provided evening wear, though, he may have been the only person to choose to wear it. It’s of no consequence, because the _mention of family_ is almost enough to curl his lip at. “My family is a means to wealth.” No love to be found there, for which Peter is grateful. “My ship is more my home than anywhere else, I quite prefer being out on the ocean and off of land as much as I can,” he says as wistful as he will allow himself, because truly, The Tundra near-perfectly suits his needs. 

Though, now with Nathaniel managing other aspects of the family, Peter has been made aware that he will be expected to take on certain other responsibilities. Not something he will lament out loud though. Instead, he tries to decide if it’s worth salvaging this conversation that he is close to losing interest in. “Right, enough about me. You then, what are you about Mr. Bouchard? Family?” Brusque and not probing too deeply. 

Bouchard seems to be a bit more boring than he thought beyond an attractive face. Pity he's not in the mood for a shag, one he can't imagine would be that good considering their exchange.

The Captain is awfully chatty about his personal life, at least for a Lukas. Elias relishes the opportunity to drink up all of that new information. It still irks him that he doesn't know his given name yet. He'll have to endure that chat with Simon sometime soon.

Elias is ready with a scoff when Lukas turns the topic back on him. "Not so much. We're estranged. I have a cat, and that's about all." He wishes he had another drink, if only to give him something to do with his hands. "I got my, ah, _'thrill-seeking behaviour’_ out of the way in my younger years, and they didn't take too kindly to that." Elias theatrically rolls his eyes. It's not untrue.

Ah, _there_ it is, that lonesome edge he sensed. It soothes his boredom at least, even with the mention of a cat meaning there is a dependant on him. Plus, his family has seemingly forsaken him, another _delicious_ tidbit. “Oh? No offence meant, but you don't really come across as a thrill-seeker.”

At the very least, his interest is piqued enough to keep sitting, though, his own empty glass is nagging to be filled even if he'd set himself an arbitrary limit. He wonders what sorts of thrills were to be _had_ by someone who works at such an intensely boring (though necessary) job as whatever Elias Bouchard had done well before becoming the Head of the Institute.

This time, Elias' smile is actually genuine. It feels good to hook Lukas' interest back again. "That's only because I don't have anything harder than a couple of drinks in me," and lets _that_ hang in the air for a moment.

Then he stands, smooths out the front of his suit jacket, and plucks the glass from Lukas' hand. "Stay here or don't, but I do want to see if I can guess what you like this time."

Peter stares _dumbfounded_ after him, both statements _indeed_ hanging quite heavily in the air. He tries his hand at deciphering that, coming up with a dangerous and _enticing_ double meaning hidden in there. Drugs? Cock? He'd like to see Elias on both, Peter thinks for a moment, watching him saunter over to the bar so he can lean on the counter. Part of him wants to hightail it and slip away into his own personal fog, but another part of him _does_ want Bouchard to guess his drink order. He watches him talk to the bartender, wondering what his guess is, or if he's cheating and asking the bartender to make Captain Lukas another of what he's been having, which has been a steady stream of Sazeracs with some _very_ finely aged rye.

Elias knows exactly what he did, and doesn't need any of Beholding's gifts to let him know the sorts of things that the Captain must be thinking. Good to let him stew for a while.

He spends the time waiting for the drinks to be made exchanging pleasantries with Annabelle Cane, making sure to compliment the dress that Lukas had called 'gaudy'. It's her first time meeting him as Elias, but it isn't as though they didn't talk. Sometimes people of interest are reticent to give up information and need a bit of encouragement. In exchange, Elias is pleased to offer assistance on her forays into extortion. Mutually beneficial all around.

Lukas was half-right in that Elias does return with a Sazerac. But to his credit, Elias had ordered for the Captain _before_ knowing that's his drink of choice. He offers the cool coupe glass to Lukas before sitting down himself. "It's not a martini, I promise," but it certainly looks like one from the colour and the garnish.

Elias makes himself comfortable next to Lukas to sample his own drink. It's been a while since he's actually bothered with cocktails. "Mm, so you _do_ have good taste."

Seeing Bouchard take a drink from the glass he _had_ been expecting to be given and then being told he has good taste does _something_ to him. After his earlier comments, it almost seems like he's been flirted with. Worst of all, Peter can't say he particularly minds, either. But he doesn't pursue the line of thought, rather, looks at his glass in amusement. “Not a martini, huh.”

Swirling it around delicately, he then takes a sip and is _immediately_ surprised. “Mr. Bouchard, how on earth did you know I’m a gin man?” Straightforward dry, a touch of vermouth, a splash of absinthe. Even he is impressed. “You have excellent taste in what you think I like, it seems.” A compliment not given lightly, holding his glass out to clink in an appreciative toast.

_Almost_ being flirted with? Please. Elias is simply out of practice. Watching Lukas follow his wishes and seeing him light up does something to Elias as well. He could get used to seeing that kind of naked appreciation.

"Lucky guess. I've a talent for reading people, even without using my little gifts. Career perks. Whatever you'd like to call them." Elias touches his glass to the Captain's and toasts, "to your Obituary. For whenever you want to order that drink again."

This is getting genuinely pleasant, Elias has to admit. Not the kind of experience he'd expected to find in flying out here. He finds himself calming and relaxing without even needing to fake it. "And please, I think we've reached the point in the evening where you can call me 'Elias.'"

Making a noise of surprise, Peter takes another drink and mulls over all of this. “Oh have we reached a first name basis now Elias? Pity I don't give mine out, you can call me ‘Captain’ if you prefer.” He raises his glass in an air toast to that before he continues, “How forgetful of me to not realize you are aligned with the Eye, I fear you may have cheated after all tonight to get me to sit here with you. What would you want from me out of this?”

Guarded again in a much different manner, but now he lets his Lonely patron help him drown out some more of the noise of the party. Colour him _much_ more interested now. Taking another taste of his Obituary, the name seems _quite_ fitting for the feeling he's getting from Bouchard.

Elias waves the comment off like it isn't even a concern. "If you insist. I bet I'll pick it up anyway before the night is out, _Captain._ From some place or another." Sober Elias could be irksome enough, but the liquor brings his smugness out in full force.

Lukas' accusation has Elias raising an eyebrow and giving him a truly skeptical look. "I did no such thing. _You_ were watching me first. I didn't do anything to encourage you over here." He can feel the dulling of the room and the dropping of the temperature, but Elias isn't concerned. The fewer distractions the better, in fact. "If you thought that I'd be easy prey, then that's entirely on you."

Peter takes a moment to finally finish off his drink, and then he gives Elias a full glance. “How was a Lukas to resist the temptation of an unknown person sitting alone at a reception where everyone else is having _fun,_ ” he lets the edge of disgust for the concept alone drip into his voice on the word itself. He's not sure if he should be insulted or not for the insinuation, since technically Elias is correct.

“I wish you luck in getting my name though, it won't be from me is for sure.” The self-satisfied air coming from Elias makes him want to wipe the grin off his face. _How_ is another question entirely.

"Come now. I didn't know you were a Lukas until you joined me. I can't pay attention to _everyone._ " Each word of this is true. Elias almost, _almost_ feels disappointment when he hears the bitterness in Lukas' voice. But what the man is saying about natures and temptations goes both ways, and Elias can't exactly stay quiet on his insights about 'Captain Lukas' when they are so deliciously damning.

Elias perks up at his idle suggestion being taken seriously. He could use a bit of entertainment that isn't just sitting and chatting. "Are you taking me up on that bet? Because I could certainly think of a few things _I'd_ like."

In all truth Peter _had_ thought him to be easy prey. The annoyance he feels at this situation is now much higher than he'd anticipated, especially for how Elias sounds so _prim_ to say he wasn't paying attention to everyone. 

But a bet? A _bet._ “I can hardly see the point of betting on my name,” Peter says, but he is _amused_ that Elias wants to know it so badly as to place terms on it. “Sounds agreeable to me, what is your wager?” An unfortunate point that Peter Lukas does not shy away from setting stakes for gain. Though until Elias tells him what he gains or loses, he will know what else to negotiate for.

Now that Lukas is open to it, Elias is turning ideas in his head more earnestly and sculpts them into the beginnings of a strategy. It's formed enough that he can confidently say, "To keep it fair, I won't go into the minds of any of the kind guests here tonight in search of it. You have my word." Elias tips his glass towards the quiet mass, indicating the other people. "I'd rather not, anyway. Makes me peckish."

From where he'd leaned forwards to gesture, Elias moves back and in closer to Lukas' side. He thinks he may as well test the waters now that Lukas doesn't have a drink to do a spit-take with. Quietly, conspiratorially, Elias asks, "Are sexual favours on the table? I wouldn't want to presume." His devious expression says he certainly _hopes_ they are.

So _that’s_ how it is. Peter can't say he's surprised, glad the flirting hasn't gone _completely_ over his head. “You are much more overt than I expected, Elias, but I appreciate the care in making this an even game.” It doesn't stop his cheeks staining just a tad bit red, thankfully he can blame it on the alcohol. 

But he leans in just as close as he slings his arm around the back of the bench, just barely brushing Elias’ shoulders where he sits. “Sexual favours are on the table, and if you lose, I’ll clean your tonsils with my cock. And if I lose?”

For a moment, just a _moment,_ Elias is transparent in how much that phrasing gets to him. Tension winds up in his thighs and in his chest as he takes in a strained inhale. _Quite_ inappropriate to be using language like that around a man in linen trousers.

"Funny, that's what I was going to ask you to do for _me._ " Elias lessens the distance between them even further, supporting himself with a hand on Lukas' shoulder. "Only I'd make you wait until the next time I cornered you at one of these events and do it somewhere semi-public. Now, would you like to append your request, Mr. Lukas?" Elias allows him time to mull it over. He has a Sazerac to finish.

Peter doesn't miss it, now finely tuned to how _alone_ they are together and how the rest of the noise has faded out enough so he hears the breath above the low hum of distant waves and static. He does take an extended moment to think it over if only because he wants to think about getting his hands and mouth on Elias now. If he's honest with himself, the past few minutes have _definitely_ made Bouchard more attractive to him. 

Humming for a moment, he lets his fingers trace Elias’ shoulder as he moves his arm to bring it back up to himself, then removing his hand as scraping his nails along the inside of his wrist. "The terms are still agreeable to me, Mr. Bouchard. I wish you luck again." Clipped tone, but he _is_ amused to cash in on this, confident that nobody will give his identity up that easily.

"You're too kind." Elias disengages himself and stands up. Fussing with his glasses helps to get him back into a more businesslike mood. He has to stay sharp when there are actual _stakes_ to this.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to pop over to the hotel. You're free to follow if you like. If you need to say your goodbyes, then I'm sure you can catch up." It's a little rude to dip out early, but Elias hasn't committed to whether he'll be back or not, and besides, he'd gotten in his requisite socializing early. He feels all right about turning on his heel and making a swift departure.

Peter takes it as Elias being somewhat flustered, how fast he gets up and says he's departing. Waving his hand at him from his lap, he watches Elias depart, letting himself get lost for a moment in thinking about shoving his cock in his throat and messing up his so neatly in place hair. Reaching over to the plate he'd left, Peter grabs the last little dainty pastry and pops it into his mouth before getting up and going back to the bar for another drink.

He does make his polite rounds, congratulating Harriet again when he sees her. There is more alcohol, Peter grabs some food for himself, and he makes nice with quite a few people as quickly as he can. It’s not the stray thought of Elias slyly inviting him back to the hotel that has him trying to leave, rather, he has about reached his limit for social interaction for the next six months, and he desperately wants to get out of his suit. That’s what makes him finally head back to the hotel, especially glad that the pop music has been kept at bay until now.

Elias is a man with an objective, and he's determined to at least complete the first part of his plan before Lukas joined him. _If_ Lukas joined him. Tormenting Lukas at the party did have a certain appeal, and Elias didn't mind returning in order to make that happen.

The first part of the plan is getting Mr. Lukas' room number from the hotel receptionist. Elias doesn't even need to use any otherworldly trickery to do it—just a "Good evening, I'll only bother you for a moment. My good friend Mr. Lukas sent me over to grab something from his room, and he gave me his key but forgot to tell me the _number._ Could you help me, please?" Gracious thanks are exchanged for information, and Elias is on his way.

He intends to stop by his own room only to grab the Swiss Army knife, but he leaves with a couple of condoms tucked in with his pocket square. Elias did debate that for a moment—would it seem too presumptuous? No, it's better to have them as an available option, and it isn't like the jacket pocket would be the place to accidentally come across them. Elias entertains his own little fantasies while making his way through the elevators and the halls. _"If you lose, I’ll clean your tonsils with my cock."_ What an image. Would it be fair to the bet to make that happen anyway, after he won?

Though his thoughts are elsewhere, Elias dies have enough of his wits about him to cloud the security cameras' eyes. Can't have them witnessing a gentleman like him performing some criminal activities.

Now, there is a challenge in working with lockpicks that Elias likes. The focus comes easily to him, but it takes _skill_ to actually do it. His former self was better at it, Elias suspects, but it isn't as though he's around anymore to prove that, is he.

Today's Elias has the advantage of unnatural knowledge on his side when it comes time to disassemble something like the card reader in front of him. And because it is easy, it's less fun to make the little modifications required to bypass the electronic lock. Elias ensures that his shoulder stays in the doorframe to hold it open while he replaces everything as it should be, knife included.

Lukas' room is a bit of a mess with the plates remaining from what had presumably been breakfast, the things that hadn't _quite_ made it into the rubbish bin, and the towels on the bathroom floor. More appropriate for a college student than a man of at least forty, in Elias' opinion. He does a quick pass around the room, scanning over the nightstand and the desk in search of something resembling a wallet or a passport. The closet next, and—ah, _that_ looks promising. Elias takes the travel bag over to an armchair to sit and rifle through it.

Elias does find the wallet he was searching for, and most (but not all) of the cards say, "Peter Lukas."

Elias tests how it sounds out loud. Now that isn't a name worth being coy about. Perfectly respectable.

Since the man himself hasn't shown up yet, Elias takes a good few minutes committing to memory every single serial number on every one of Peter Lukas' cards. It's always useful to have somebody's credit card and banking information. Elias replaces everything exactly where he took it from, travel bag included, and leaves holding the wallet.

Elias is out the door just in time to hear the elevator chime and watch Mr. Peter Lukas walking down the hallway. He's taken his sweet time, hasn't he. Elias takes the last couple of steps to intercept him in the hallway, looking positively _delighted._

"I suppose you'll be wanting this back then," Elias taunts, delicately offering up the wallet. "Won't you, _Peter._ "

Peter Lukas has certain… expectations. Especially during social gatherings where he has some sort of stay involved at a hotel or otherwise.

Expectation one, he wants to be able to slip away at a moment’s notice to be _alone._ As is customary for his personage, he will do whatever is necessary to ensure that his peace and quiet is not disturbed, and usually money ensures this is _thoroughly_ taken care of.

Two, Peter expects privacy, which one might think is the same as expectation one, but they are very, _very_ different. He expects to be able to come back to his accommodations and be thoroughly, completely, and totally undetected. He wants the privacy of his belongings kept where they had been left, and of his personal information being sealed away untouched.

Third, he expects complete and total obedience to the Do Not Disturb placard hanging from the door. Nobody in beside himself under any circumstances.

And finally, the expectation that he will exit the elevator and forget about one Elias Bouchard and his tempting and very audacious bet. As it so happens, Peter _immediately_ recognizes his wallet so disrespectfully in Elias’ grip. It is equal parts infuriating and _thrilling,_ Elias looking so extremely _satisfied_ to have taken no time at all to win their little bet.

“Oh aren't you a sneaky little thing,” Peter says, grabbing his wrist instead and backing him up against the closest wall, pinning Elias’ hand and subsequently his wallet above his head. “I underestimated you, didn't think you would go so far as to break into my room to steal my wallet. I suppose you win.” His other hand goes to Elias’ hip, just above his belt as he pushes his thumb into the fabric of his shirt.

"Suppose I do." Elias is as receptive to being handled and directed as a dancing follow to their lead. He even loops his free arm around Peter's waist to rest his hand upon the small of his back, between suit jacket and shirt.

"I've been thinking about _your_ win condition," he muses, and directs his eyes' attention to stare into Peters', to his lips, and back again. "And I realized that it's not really a good bet if a loss is almost as attractive as a win for me." Elias chuckles and nods to the closest of the security cameras. "I'd drop to my knees right here, but I have a feeling you'd appreciate the privacy. Unlock the door."

“Well aren't you chock full of surprises today, _Elias.”_ Raising an eyebrow, Peter wonders if this is a trick—if he's going to wake up in a bathtub full of ice and missing a kidney for how straightforward Elias is being. Plucking his wallet out of Elias’ hand as he takes a healthy step back, Peter reaches into his pocket to get his key out, opening the door swiftly and walking in. He’s half tempted to shut the door on him, but he lets Elias in, then closing it when they're both inside.

“You’re awfully eager, I thought it was decided on our next rendezvous, this hardly counts.” Still, Peter would thoroughly enjoy shoving Elias down onto the bed and fucking him properly. Though, of course, he wouldn't mind him getting on his knees right now.

A proper shrug isn't all that noticeable during the process of taking off his suit jacket but Elias does it all the same. "Something nice for now and something to look forward to. For me, at least." The belt next, and Elias catches himself automatically folding it like a strap. He sets it down. Another day, perhaps.

"I don't intend to be gentle when I have you on _your_ knees. So you'd best take advantage while you can." Elias steps into Peter's space to assist him with his clothing, though he is both half-expecting and open to the idea of forceful interruptions.

He lets his jacket come off with Elias’ help, then the tie, the first few buttons of his shirt before he says, “I don't do gentle.”

Gentleness leads to _connection,_ and he has no desire for anything other than the surface tension of lust to be broken and indulged. It’s surprisingly comforting that Elias seems to be on the same page, very well intending this too to be part of this little game Peter has found himself in. At least it's interesting, and he knows the Head of The Magnus Institute isn't after his money or power, which means this is purely for physical fun with little personal gain. Just how he likes his sex.

Peter interrupts the calm undressing with pushing Elias back against the closest wall, leaning down for a bruising kiss. It’s hard, his chapped lips rough against Elias’ smooth set, and Peter doesn't hesitate to reach around to grab roughly onto his ass, small as it is.

" _Good._ " It's been a long time since Elias had made out with anyone with this much beard, and sensory memory reminds him of the days when he was Jonah, just Jonah, consorting with allies, finding entertainment, or, very rarely, seeking out a warm body as though companionship would do anything to ease the night terrors ever-present in that time. They don't haunt him nightly anymore. They are his waking reality, and exposure does a lot for making horrors seem mundane. The Jonah of before would not have the boldness required to seize Forsaken's son by the hair or press his teeth into their bottom lip, and certainly not to do it with _excitement._ Jonah would like to think that's progress.

Elias' body responds well to the groping. When he tries to get closer by wrapping a leg around Peter's, the press of tight fabric against his cock makes his responses vocal. Elias chokes a groan into Peter's mouth, and he holds him in place by the back of his skull if he wants to go hunting for more of those.

Grinning against Elias’s lips, he opens his mouth into his and shoves his tongue in. Severe in his kiss, as his hands wander instead, one hiking Elias’ thigh up so his leg instead is at Peter’s hip, and then deciding to hike his other up so he's got him pinned to the wall. Holding him up and groaning into his mouth for how his hair is tugged on—maybe it's counterproductive to getting Elias on his knees, but it shuts him up and gets him some noises that go straight to his cock. As much as he'd like to feel his mouth on him, he still tastes like alcohol, which Peter is chasing the taste of.

His mouth wanders while his fingers dig into the linen covering the underside of Elias’ thighs. Right now, careful is not on his mind as he sucks on tender flesh, teeth sinking into Elias’ neck. Not _too_ sharply, but enough to know it will sting, soothing the bite with his tongue before finding another spot under his jaw to do the same to. His cock is stiff already from this, helped by the underlying tension from before and from the thrum of alcohol still in his veins.

It hasn't been _so_ long that he's completely out of practice and feeling needy, but there is something about having an agent of the Eye squirming in his grip that _really_ is getting him. How fitting, the opposite nature of their entities juxtaposed like this. A Lonely individual making the Eye shudder, rather than the other way around.

Elias is having a hell of a time with being crowded into space and forced to simply _feel._ Then the biting hits, and the hot embarrassed flush that rises in him is more from the cry he hears himself make than it is from the desire-stoking pain. Clutching and clawing at Peter's back like a virgin boy. Honestly, _Elias,_ did you always sound this desperate? What was going to happen if he let Peter actually fuck him?

Elias swallows and draws in a couple of steadying breaths. "Peter, _Peter,_ put me down." _Before I make a fool of myself,_ he doesn't say.

Dragging his teeth over a pulse point, Peter mumbles a quick, “No,” into his neck. In all actuality, he's feeling rather spiteful for being forced into a corner verbally earlier, not to mention the burglary of his wallet. Elias’ shirt suffers the casualty, Peter grabbing the fabric in one hand and pulling hard enough to bust some buttons, the side he's gripping coming loose from under his tie. His fingers then find a nipple, pinching while on contemplating pulling on the tie with his teeth, but he'd rather only have to apologize for ruining only _one_ article of clothing. A thought in itself that makes him realize how ridiculous this is, because Peter does _not_ apologize.

“You seem to like it where you are,” Peter says with a heavy breath as he pulls back and admires the angry little marks he's left. “Or are you that hungry for my cock that you have to get on your knees for me right now."

Were he in his right mind, Elias would be thinking that the shirt is no great loss, or that at least he doesn't have to leave the building to do the later walk of shame back to his own room. But he isn't, and he's shaking, because he feels so very exposed under Peter's scrutiny. Elias latches on tight to that terrifying and comforting familiarity.

Following those flaying accusations (truths?), Elias fills in the silence by brutally kissing him again. What was meant to be a menacing grip on the back of Peter's neck softens out to more of a deep massage as the moments go on. When it's time, Elias breaks it off to sigh and to smile. "Mm, you're doing the Eye's work awfully well for a Lukas."

Peter is quite into the way Elias is shaking until he has that saccharine edge to his words that makes Peter sneer as he lets go of his legs and moves his own body back. He doesn't drop Elias entirely, instead keeping him standing while his hand grabs for his tie for leverage. “You love being _exposed,_ don't you Elias? Tell me, are you looking at yourself from my eyes, seeing how violated you look?” He knows he's _not,_ Peter would be able to feel that if it were happening, but it doesn't hurt to throw in a little dirty talk to see if it knocks him off his smug little self-worship pedestal. “All bruised up from my mouth; you’ll be wearing those for at least a week, I think.”

Peter keeps his voice even, calm as if talking about the weather. “I think you like it, having people know you like being used. I bet you wouldn't even fight me if I…” Trailing off, Peter grabs Elias by the hair with his other hand and pushes down with the intent of getting him kneeling with his back to the wall.

The _really fun_ move to pull right now would be to plant the vision in Peter's head of Elias in third-person view, looking utterly, _attractively_ ruined. Elias loves giving partners a goal to work towards. And he would—almost does—but all the material he has is of James Wright and he doesn't want to give the game away too quickly. Borrowing Peter's eyes was something to do later when the debauchment was further along, because Elias knows he's been pushing Peter's patience all evening and it was unlikely that he'd be allowed to pull that trick twice.

Elias would just have to use his words. "Oh, please. This is nothing." While he has the chance to still do it, Elias plucks the glittering tie bar from its spot next to Peter's fist to pocket it. His fingers tap against the knife there, which is good insurance to have in case this evening went _completely_ sideways—even if Peter probably already knew it was there from the way he'd been holding him against the wall.

Elias obediently goes where he is directed to and primly arranges himself on the floor. He knows that he is being watched. He knows what he looks like. And he knows that an outside eye would not be able to sense how much his stomach is churning as he folds his hands neatly in his lap and cranes his neck to look up at his lead's face. "You're one man, Peter," Elias taunts, his smile serene. "What can one man do."

Elias _still_ has to be annoying about making sure he's sat on his own legs properly, right in front of Peter and looking up at him with that pompous look like he is in control of this situation. He doesn't let the taunt get too far under his skin before he lets Elias’ hair go, unbuckling his belt and then undoing his trousers. “You’re right, I _am_ one man, and you're getting terribly close to seeing just _what_ I can do. But I want to see what _you_ can do for me, Elias.” Wrapping the fat bottom end around his fist, Peter tugs on his tie, glad to see it ends up tighter around his neck; he pulls him forward face-first into his briefs, cock hard against Elias’ cheek through the thin piece of fabric.

Elias chuckles, into him, and makes sure that he can feel the ghost of breath against his dick. "As you wish."

For what may be the first time tonight, Elias makes an honest effort out of doing what Peter wants. Elias wants the contact too—had been thinking about it for the last while—and he wouldn't say he's _desperate,_ but it's nice. He spends his allotted time to nuzzle and mouth at Peter through his underclothes and to savour the heft and scent of him. The only time his hands move from his lap is in removing his glasses to set them safely aside—he isn't sure if he's _allowed_ to touch him or not. Elias spares some of his attention for Peter's balls in particular. At one point, he even noses the briefs aside just enough to get his tongue on them directly.

Breathing out a hard breath through his nose as he watches Elias nose at him. He had expected him to use his hands, but watching him work without them makes this even _better._ One hint of tongue directly on his skin, and Peter groans low in his throat, pulling Elias back by the tie and savouring the smug sight of him. But, he doesn't have anything to say as he pulls his cock out, tugging by the damp front of his briefs. His shirt hangs just a little in the way, but that's not his problem to deal with. The thought of protection doesn't even cross his mind with how hot the desire runs through him to shove himself past Elias’ lips right here and now, but he wants to see just how Elias proceeds before he gets to that point.

Given the freedom to act and knowledge that it isn't going to last, Elias wants to see what other sorts of reactions he can get out of Peter. While unbuttoning Peter's dress shirt for him, he gives him much the same kind of treatment as he did before. With more enthusiasm, granted, because Peter's cock is _nice._ Elias has to rein in his own desire to get on with it already because he's trying to project patience. He'll absolutely cup and suck on his balls though, humming with approval as he does so.

Peter groans, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment to just _enjoy_ that. “You're good with that mouth, aren't ya? I’m not surprised,” punctuated by a pleased huff of breath. Despite what he says, part of him _is_ surprised by Elias right now, knowing it takes a certain kind of man to _really_ start dirty, and Peter can appreciate a careful mouth on his balls. He takes his shirt off in full, letting it slip from his shoulders and down to the floor without a sound while he thinks about their bet.

If they had waited until the next time they ran into one another, Peter would have gotten one mouthful of cock before he would have snapped and taken him elsewhere to fuck him facedown until he couldn't move. He fully intends to do that _tonight,_ but the sounds of appreciation Elias is making? Makes his cock throb against the side of his head. “Your mouth is pretty like that—it's a bit dainty though, are you sure you can fit me in there?”

"I'm sure I'll manage." Elias is drinking up the attention and praise. He's also taking in the sight of Peter's stomach and chest revealed and gets all sorts of nice ideas about what his mouth could do up there instead. Peter is so pale. Elias thinks he'd look lovely covered in bites and scratchmarks.

Pulling himself away from that fantasy, Elias finally gets to work and wraps his hand around Peter's cock. With slow and confident motion, Elias jerks him off and marvels at the colour change of the foreskin sliding over it. And just to be _awful,_ Elias lets some of the spit which had been gathering in anticipation drip down over the head before he even gets his lips on it properly.

Elias does go against his promise to himself and jumps into Peter's vision to watch that happen. Only for a moment. Couldn't resist.

He makes it up to Peter by resting the cock on his tongue and feeding it to himself bit by bit. Getting used to the weight and feel of it in his new, untested mouth. (Well, not entirely. The former Elias had experience with this sort of thing. Jonah-as-Elias hasn't taken it for a spin yet, and he's amused by the thought that he very well may be throwing himself into the deep end.)

Peter can feel, above all else, the moment he's not alone in his head, looking through his own eyes alone. It’s the briefest moment, but he _knows_ it was so Elias can catch a glimpse of himself, which is the only reason Peter doesn't retaliate because the sight he makes _is_ good. He moans in appreciation, pushing his fingers through Elias’ hair while he watches his progress. “Managing _great_ so far, mouth stuffed up with my cock,” he says it while he rocks his hips forward, continuing, “Are you going to think of this when you're alone back at your institute? Mouth watering for it when you’re at your desk bored to tears of your paperwork? Or are you going to think of me returning the favour the next time you see me? Or maybe you’ll rub off thinking about watching yourself through my eyes, that what you really want?”

Peter is going to be the death of him, running his mouth like that. Dirty talk, _right proper_ stuff, flips Elias' stomach over and makes his cock twitch in his too-tight trousers. Given his age it's unlikely that he could go off untouched, but he's free to hope.

As encouragement, Elias makes a seal of his lips and works the length that he can comfortably handle. His hand drops down to rest upon his knee in symmetry with the other one, leaving himself more open to control. There's something so attractive about letting Peter feel the rumble of the moaning in his throat directly. Elias leans in to try and make that into a reality, but his body makes him freeze. He tries again and outright _gags,_ forcing himself to sit with the sensation until it goes away. It doesn't. Well _that's_ infuriating.

For all of his talk about Elias not being able to fit his cock down his throat, it looks like the prophecy has quite suddenly come true, and Peter grips Elias’ hair tighter while he holds him in place. “Oh, would you look at that! Looks like someone has reached his limit, what a pity.” Right now he's feeling a bit _mean_ as he thrusts forward and makes Elias gag again. Pulling back, he does it _again,_ chuckling as he feels the sick sensation of the shuddering gasp of breath that comes with holding back bile when he gives Elias a little more room to work with. “Would have thought for how smug you come off that you'd have the skill to back it up,” he says, taunting him while his other hand reaches to Elias’ throat to rub his thumb over his adam’s apple. “But what a _sight_ you make, flushed up.” It’s _probably_ not humiliation, but Peter would very much like to pretend it is.

It _actually_ is, is the thing. Elias is making a genuine effort and keeps coming up short. He doesn't care much about his partners' judgement of his skill, but he certainly cares about his subjective perceptions. It's bad enough that Elias is frustrated with himself without having another voice in the room to support that opinion. The real humiliation makes him seethe, and that's an interesting look for a person with tears in his eyes and spit dripping down his chin.

Elias' head knocks against the wall as he forces himself backwards and free of Peter's dick. "I'm out of practice," he grumbles, and coughs to clear his throat. Elias takes a moment to check in with himself and is reassured that yes, this is still a worthwhile experience despite the various types of discomfort. That is a part of it, and he's always had a masochistic streak.

To show that he's still more than fine, Elias spends a measure taking Peter back into his mouth to do some very involved things with his tongue and his corona. Elias forces direct eye contact to demand, "Come on, then. _Break me in._ "

Watching Elias get _upset_ with himself is… a _treat._ The look on his face is one he's going to remember when he's alone on his ship on a cold night—a _rich_ thought from himself, who thrives on being just that, alone. But even Peter is not immune to needing the relief of jerking off, and his mental reserves _have_ been running low on good material lately.

Elias looks sloppy with his shirt half ripped open, drooling, hair a mess from how Peter is handling him. And when Elias takes him back into his mouth, he hums appreciatively. What he isn't prepared for is to hear Elias _so_ loud and clear, demanding to be _broken in,_ and Peter doesn't have the constitution to wonder why he is choosing _that_ phrasing. It certainly goes right through him and makes him _throb._ If that's what he _wants,_ who is Peter to deny him this?

Moving his hand to cradle the side of Elias’ face, fingertips brushing his jaw from above, Peter moves him into a better position while he shifts his stance. He snaps his hips forward, chuckling again at the sound of discomfort he drags from Elias, but then takes a more sensible approach with this. He starts with shallower thrusts, just hovering on hitting the back of his throat so he can get into the motion. Once he's got himself worked up, Peter goes for it, holding Elias’ head in place as he shoves his cock further down into his mouth, repeatedly into his throat to see just how _much_ he can take. “Handsome little picture you are,” Peter huffs out, realizing he'd been stricken to silence by Elias, but also having the keen sense that he's getting right off on what he's got to say.

Though he can't and wouldn't say it, Elias is thankful that Peter gives him the chance to work up to it. As much as he enjoys taking charge while giving head and reducing his partner to a writhing mess, there's also something nice about quite literally putting himself into another person's hands. It forces him to live in his bodily experiences and keeps him from getting too cerebral. He's so used to looking outward that it's healthy for him to acknowledge his relation to the physical, even if it takes seeking out a bit of torment to get himself to do that.

It shows on him, how much Elias simultaneously loves and _loathes_ this. The groaning gives way to punched-out abortive sounds and muffled whimpering. Elias cannot keep himself still and he grabs hold of Peter by the thighs where his trousers are pushed down—not forcing him away, certainly not, but giving himself an anchor and a read on Peter's movements. It's all Elias can do to keep his teeth out of the way. All in all, a beautifully expressive picture for a sadist's sensibilities.

It’s the strained noises, the sound of Elias not getting enough air that starts getting to him, but when his near demure composure and posture breaks and he grabs onto Peter’s thighs? He groans deep in his chest, thrusting his hips particularly hard and forcing his cock deeper. Grabbing his hair tighter, Peter angles Elias’ head up to give him a more clean line down into his throat, losing himself in the motion.

It’s funny, how simultaneously blissed out and _infuriated_ he looks, but Peter wants to push _further._ “Might want to take a deep breath, Mr. Bouchard,” said jovially, giving him a moment to either do it… or not. It’s not his concern if he listens. With his other hand, he pinches Elias’ nose shut and thrusts his cock as far down as he can, holding there for a moment and now _much_ closer to coming, but not _quite_ yet.

Elias' physiological panic response is out in full force now. His breaths come in shallow and shaky when he is allowed to take them. The frantic pulse beating in his neck is hardly the most _prominent_ of sensations that he's dealing with, but Elias is made acutely aware of its presence. When Peter gives him instruction he does his best to follow it and _endure,_ even if he has to dig his nails into Peter's flesh to do so, but his traitorous stomach has other ideas. Elias' mental fortitude loses the fight as he chokes up fluid and alcohol and god knows what else right onto Peter's dick.

Elias struggles to get away, then. Can't help it when he felt like he was drowning. He manages to free himself and half-turn sideways to fold over and hack his lungs out. The shirt hanging off one shoulder, already a lost cause before _that,_ could see some better use as a towel. Elias takes it off. "Right," he wheezes. "Fair play."

Peter can't help but _laugh,_ a deep, hearty rumble in his chest as he watches it all happen. He doesn't even mind the mess all over his cock, nor on the carpet—that is the least of his concern, he's not going to have to clean it up. Close as he was, it’s not even frustrating to be interrupted by a bit of vomit; he distinctly remembers worse happening during romps at other points in his life. “Quite alright there Elias?”

He steps back from him and pushes his trousers down, stepping out of them as he heads for the bathroom. There's not much sympathy to be had, after all, Elias _had_ asked him to break him in. “I’m washing off, you might want to rinse your mouth.”

Elias thinks it fortunate that Peter was taking this in stride. He manages a brief, affirmative hum before the coughing resumes. In the time Peter takes to clean up, Elias spits on the carpet and mops at his face. Shakily, Elias stands to extract himself from his trousers as delicately as he can, grimacing at the touch of wrist against the erection in his briefs. That was a _later_ problem. The tie goes too because it felt silly to still be wearing it. Elias brings his glasses into the bathroom to leave on the counter, lest they get stepped on.

"I'm still finishing you off," Elias informs Peter over the sound of the tap. He makes sure he does a thorough job of rinsing out his mouth. Wouldn't want to repeat that interruption.

Laughing in the shower, Peter is taking the time to wash himself off completely of the day. This tropical weather is _not_ for him, as much as he can keep himself cool by keeping himself in his own personal fog, the island temperatures tended to be much more overbearing. So it doesn't hurt to get completely clean, not that he's looking to _impress._ “Are you? I was going to fuck you facedown into the mattress unless you have some other plans. Oh, and if you need to use my toothbrush, it’s still in my bag in the closet.”

Elias would absolutely _not_ be borrowing anyone's toothbrush. He will, however, steal the hotel bathrobe and the slippers. Splashes some water on his face and takes a look at himself in the mirror to make sure he looks decent. Might as well get that walk of shame over with sooner rather than later, now that finishing what he started with Peter was on pause. That's a bit disappointing. He'd been in an interesting headspace.

"I'll think about it." Which he would. Elias' plan coming in was to suck Peter off, and then get a handjob or blowjob in return if Peter was feeling generous or masturbate if he wasn't. At the moment, he could go either way. "I'll be right back. I'm borrowing your key card."

True to his word, Elias is quick about slinking off to his hotel room to retrieve pyjamas and his toiletries bag. He arrives back just in time to hear Peter getting out of the shower and joins him in the bathroom to brush his teeth _properly,_ thank you.

Peter hears him leave, finishing up and deciding that besides just cleaning his dick, he wouldn't bring himself off. At least, not until he's sure Elias hasn't ditched him out of embarrassment, he wouldn't blame him if that were the case. But by the time he shuts the water off and grabs his towel, he hears the door to the room open back up, seeing Elias pop back into the bathroom with him. “Huh, didn't expect you back this quick.”

Drying off his hair first, he wipes down well enough, wrapping the towel around his waist. Leaning against the sink next to him, he says, “Still intent on sucking me off, or have you thought about my other suggestion? I’d like to make a mess of you, this time without choking you out. And, well, I suppose I should say something about that, only meant to make you lightheaded. Not my best idea, I’m afraid.”

Elias is not at all shy or subtle about appreciating Peter's nude form while he has the opportunity in front of him. In the bright bathroom lighting, he looks even paler. Elias is again reminded of a blank canvas to be marked up.

No spoken responses come while he's busy brushing his teeth, but Elias does dismiss that last comment with a wave. Spits into the sink and tells him, "Not a worry." Scoffs to himself around a mouthful of water, swallows, and adds, "My eyes are, ah— _bigger than my stomach, it seems._ "

Smirking, Elias hangs up the robe and toes off the slippers. He trusts that Peter doesn't need his help in finding his way over to the perfectly serviceable bed. "Honestly, all of it sounds nice. I'd like to be made a mess _of,_ since you were so far along on that before."

Peter follows Elias with his eyes first, marvelling at his lithe form just _waiting_ to be bruised up further. He wants to get his mouth on him, get him overwhelmed and _ruin_ him. As much as he would have liked to see where getting blown was going to go, he's almost glad for the untimely vomit. Now he's going to get the chance to fuck him docile, if he goes about it right.

Walking out of the bathroom after doing a quick swish of hotel mouthwash in lieu of wasting the time to actually go get his own toothbrush, he finds Elias sitting on the bed expectantly. The bites and bruises from earlier are stark against his complexion, and without the distraction of glasses, Elias’ eyes are _sharp_ and challenging, to which Peter grins and gets on the bed next to him, pulling him into a kiss. By now, his cock has gone soft thanks to the cold shower, but he knows it won't be a problem.

The gentle awkwardness of sitting side-by-side to kiss puts Elias in mind of teenage romance, and there's not a chance he's going to let that stand for long. It occurs to him that a Lukas would probably hate it if Elias did something like, say, caressing the side of his face and sighing into the too-chaste brush of lips. Which he does, naturally. The caress strokes delicately down the side of Peter's neck, putting his hand in a _very_ good position indeed to seize him by the throat and lean his full bodyweight into slamming him down on the mattress.

Peter did say that he didn't do gentle. Neither did Elias. And he's been getting a bit tired of being passive.

_That_ is not what Peter is going for, the gentle touch and the sigh against his lips, finding it a bit _annoying._ And when he's about to do something about it, he's _quite_ surprised about the complete shift in energy, falling to the bed _quite_ suddenly with Elias looking down at him with that smug expression he wants to wipe off his face. But he doesn't take it lying down (figuratively), grabbing Elias by his briefs and nearly tearing the damned things off as he pulls him into his lap. It all goes straight through him, feeling that flood of desire push back through him in a wave that has him looking up at Elias darkly. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”

It's as much Peter's wish to get him into his lap as it is Elias' to go. He stays high, kneeling over him, keeping the advantage of leverage. "Oh, probably." Elias personally would love to see Peter try and describe what he had in mind with the grip tightening around his windpipe. It was certainly more of a threat to his well-being than being jerked around by a tie as a leash, but Peter had been _cruel,_ and Elias feels himself entitled to a bit of retaliation.

While he still has him pinned, Elias drops down towards Peter's chest to sink his teeth into his pectoral. It's a far cry from playful pressure, but Elias isn't trying to rip a chunk out of him either.

He knows he deserves this, especially with how he had _used_ Elias—at the man’s own insistence, of course, so he doesn't feel a shred of guilt for it. But he sucks in a sharp gasp at the sudden pain, grabbing hold on Elias’ thighs and digging his fingernails in. Still, the burst after the pain, the low hum of _pleasure_ is _exquisite,_ and his hips buck up as he squirms under Elias. “I should put a gag on you, can't trust you with that mouth.”

A laugh, a dark and dire thing, rumbles down into Peter's flesh. Elias does grant him a bit of relief in suckling and licking over the wound, punctuating his words with it. "Did I bite you earlier? When you had your prick jammed down my throat? No, I don't believe I did." He switches his mouth's attention over to the closest nipple to him, rolling it between his lips to bring it to a peak.

Peter doesn't seem terribly perturbed by the restriction to his breathing, but that was fine. Elias will just change that into a couple of fingers resting on his tongue instead. "And a gag is an attractive thought, but Peter, _oh Peter,_ you've just damned yourself." Elias shifts his weight back and hovers over him to really drink up his reactions. "We still have that _bet._ So I'm going to have to find one that would suit you and start bringing it along to parties."

The gears turn in his head and he realizes what Elias means with a scoff, as best as he can from behind Elias’ fingers. And though he can't say it out loud, he hopes the bastard hears him loud and clear when he viciously thinks, _'I’d like to see you try, Bouchard.'_ Back to the last name to prove that this is a one-time curiosity, bet be damned. He would never allow Elias to do anything remotely like that. No gags, no blindfolds, no handcuffs, nothing to restrain any part of him. Peter would avoid every single event from here on out if he could. He is hardly turned off though, quite the opposite as Elias’ mouth pays attention to him.

Peter is not to be outdone by a brat, closing his mouth around and sucking on Elias’ fingers as he moves his own hands up his thighs. He ends up pushing his hands under the top elastic of Elias’ briefs, moving to grab his ass, spreading his cheeks apart so he can circle his hole with his fingers. If not to unbalance him, to tease him.

"No?" Elias settles his weight almost fully down on Peter's hips and _rolls._ He sighs out a pleased breath. Contact, that was nice. "Mm. Not in public, anyway. That's fair. Reputation is important." Elias straightens up, watching Peter suck on him, feeling him play with his ass. He could get used to this, and wonders if Peter would allow himself to be ridden. Probably not tonight when Elias has been pushing his luck for hours.

He'd stop, at least for a bit. Elias takes his fingers back and clambers off of him to settle more centrally on the bed and strip. "Your turn, Mr. Lukas. Where would you like me?"

It does cross his mind, Elias riding him, but there are too many promises to make good on right now to let that happen. Peter, though, gets off the bed and heads for his bag in the closet to get his lube while he says, “Turn around and face the headboard, on your knees. I’ll put you there myself if you don't.” It’s not an idle threat, of course, but it’s the least of his fantasies right now. Peter’s goal is for Elias to hobble out of here when they're done, though… “I’m clean, but I don't have any rubbers.”

Elias rolls his eyes, certainly thinking _something_ about Peter's particular type of preparedness. He wonders what it says about _him_ when he gets up to retrieve the pair of condoms he had stashed away in his suit jacket pocket.

While he's up Elias collects the knife and the tie bar from his ruined trousers to arrange them _just so_ on the bedside table. He'd hoped to get an attractively debauched image of himself earlier before his damned _gag reflex_ spoiled it, but at least he can set up a good shot now. Elias flicks the condoms in Peter's direction when he returns and arranges himself on the bed as instructed. "Do you always top?" He asks conversationally. It's good information to have.

Peter pays no mind to whatever arrangement Elias is making of himself as he has to bend down and pick the condoms up from the floor where he'd failed to catch them. But as soon as he gets up, he takes a _very_ lovely mental photograph for himself to look back on and wank over in the coming months. Tossing the lube and the condom down in reach on the bed, Peter kneels behind Elias as he says, “Not always, but more often than not. Takes a proper big personality to get me on my back, the one that doesn't take no for an answer.” Which he suspects Elias is, but he doesn't give him time to answer before clapping his hands together, rubbing them rapidly, and then grabbing hold of Elias’ cheeks again to spread them apart. He crudely spits at his hole before his mouth follows, dragging his tongue against it.

Oh, _good._ Elias was going to have _words_ for Peter if he'd skipped right to it. Hasn't even touched his dick yet, the monster. But this is a promising start and Elias lets him know that through the arch in his back and the pleased hum in his voice.

The headboard and pillows aren't very interesting things to look at, but the advantage of being one of the Eye's own is that Elias doesn't have to. Every single one of the initiated at the Magnus Institute wears the mark of the third eye, not on the forehead (terribly unprofessional and terribly obvious) but on the back of the neck where Beholding's attention was most often felt. An acknowledgement; a yes, I see you, as you See me. Each person was free to choose the image that spoke to them the most, from religious (hamsas, wedjats, Eyes of Providence) to secular designs of all artistic styles. On Elias the ink is fresh and vivid, his third eye looking like exactly that—close enough in appearance to the ones on his face that it amused Elias to watch people do double-takes. Three months ago, Jonah Magnus set a hazel-irised eyeball down on a tattoo artist's table and paid them handsomely for their silence. Poor Elias Bouchard. At least that pretty colour wouldn't go forgotten.

Elias watches Peter using that to keep himself engaged. "I don't always bottom either. It depends on my mood." And what's most enjoyable for his stolen flesh, naturally. Jonah is curious to make more discoveries about Elias this evening. "You're welcome to experiment. If I don't like something, I'm not afraid to tell you." He rolls his shoulders, settling. "Whether you'll _listen_ is another thing entirely."

The only experimenting Peter wants to do right now is with seeing what is going to wind him up the most, but first he bites down onto the back of Elias’ thigh hard enough that he knows it’s going to sting. “I’m not a very good listener, Elias. I’m actually quite _terrible_ at it.”

Pressing a teasing, wet kiss to Elias’ perineum, Peter takes a moment to inhale the sweet scent and taste of the day’s sweat on him, pleased to find that it's in that _perfect_ range. Not too clean, but not crossing the line where a wash is needed. Like Goldilocks and the three bears, Elias tastes _just_ right, an amusing thought as he lavishes the area with his tongue and his lips, moving up slow until he’s back at his hole. Pushing his tongue inside, Peter moans deeply, adjusting his grip on Elias to keep him in this exact position.

Elias tenses up when bitten but he doesn't flinch away, and the exhale through his teeth doesn't have any particular malice to it. He hopes that Peter would do that again, but he doesn't waste his breath on any requests to a self-proclaimed 'terrible listener.' (Elias knows what he was getting into when implying it was fine to ignore his protests. Peter Lukas is not an idiot and has to be aware of the kinds of repercussions that would come from seriously harming the Head of the Magnus Institute. With he and Mr. Lukas being what they were—pulling their sustenance from the suffering of creatures—Elias was fine in offering up a bit of his own terror in exchange for insight about Peter Lukas' character. Tit for tat. Regular partners couldn't even _get_ him to feel real fear anymore.)

Watching Peter take initiative is really quite amusing. Elias can't remember the last time he'd had a partner go at him this ravenously. More than that, he isn't sure if he'd _ever_ done this except when freshly bathed. Elias isn't stoic—hard to be when Peter's enthusiasm is endearing and he has some actual expertise—but at least he has the good sense to keep still. "Oh, that's _nice,_ " Elias groans in response to the tongue sliding into him. The way he bows his head kicks his vision up towards the ceiling in the closest thing a tattoo could get to an ecstatic eye-roll.

Now, Peter, he is a man of fine tastes, always had been. Being _lonesome_ in this world, while the goal, did not mean he himself had to skimp on the finer things in life while he kept his god satisfied. Coming from a rich family, sure, anything he had truly wanted had been given to him, every banal desire indulged, all of his needs met. They all just so happened to align with his family’s purpose, making him the favoured son out of all of his mother’s children. Point being, making sure to sample the finer things in life meant that at the end of the day, when Peter finds himself fading in and out of the static, the memory of _having,_ plain and simple, keeps him going. When there is nobody else to feed on, his own self-exile and alienation tastes _divine._ Perhaps that is what makes his so different from most other fears, the tantalizing bittersweet pain of being on his own mixing with the relief of having that peace and quiet and _separation_ from the world, it is _heavenly._

Elias tastes absolutely marvellous like this, and Peter can _not_ get enough. Humming again as he shoves his tongue deeper, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose, savouring this. Like a finely aged wine pulled from a chilled wine cellar or the most perfect medium rare steak cooked by the world's best chef, that is how this is for Peter in this moment. He at least briefly forgets that his goal is to get as close as he can to raving him into silence.

Working up a bit more saliva, Peter works in a finger alongside his tongue, very quickly replacing it with another finger so he can start working him open as he says, “When you cash in on your prize next time we meet, you’re going to have to let me have another go at you like this. I imagine I could keep going until I had you jizzing on my neck just from my tongue. You taste _lovely,_ won't be able to think of you without thinking of the taste of your arse.”

In most situations Elias would be snapping at his partner to use the lube which was _right there,_ but this is not most situations. Elias is open and eager and craving any and all intimate touch. And those _promises,_ too, all stirring enough to be filed away for a long time to come.

Elias chooses for himself a tone of voice too amorous for a superior and too vicious for a lover. Peter shouldn't have spoken up if he didn't want a dialogue. "I bet you would, you repulsive little man. You didn't seem keen on gags earlier, but I wonder if you'd change your tune if it was my underclothes stuffed into that _filthy_ mouth."

Being called ‘filthy’ goes straight to his cock, going from chub to _quite_ interested _very_ quickly. Breathing a ragged breath, he slaps Elias’ ass _hard_ with his free hand, feeling the lust wash right into him at the mere _suggestion._ “You think I would let you get the better of me like that? You won't have the time, because I’ll first have you begging for my mouth and my cock.” Smacking him again for good measure, Peter moves back to shove his tongue back in alongside his fingers.

Being smacked around is wonderfully jarring, but it's still not enough to silence Elias' bright laughter. He thinks he has a much better idea of what Peter's on about than he did a minute ago. It takes him a beat to regain his composure, but at least Elias has that talented, _terrible_ mouth to focus on. "Peter, I can see you blushing."

If Peter were a weaker man, his knees might quiver, but Peter is _not_ a weak man. Finally pulling himself away, he grabs the condom and tears open the packet, already hard and _aching_ for this. He doesn't respond to the teasing, at least, not like he’s sure Elias _wants_ him to respond. “The only blushing I can see is on your bottom,” finally rolling the condom on, he smacks Elias on the ass again, and then another time for good measure. His voice goes just a touch more cheery, smoothly enunciating each word with perhaps a bit more clarity. “Taunting me won't trip me up, Mr. Bouchard, do you want me to punish you? You wanted me to break you in and you couldn't handle my cock in your throat, but I’m not finished.”

Elias had been laughing before but he's outright moaning now. On all fours is one of his favourite positions, with 'ease of spanking' being a major contributing factor. Elias shudders at the thought of that happening again with Peter buried balls-deep in him.

Crisp sadism is another weakness. Elias indulges in that one often enough—especially in these sorts of encounters—that it's invigorating to hear it mirrored back. Elias feels very much alert and _ready_ to let Peter have at it.

"I was fine to continue earlier, until you fled into the shower." Elias says it as a statement, not a boast. Peter deserves to know that when it could inform his further actions. Convenient as otherworldly sight is, it just doesn't have the same effect on people as actual eye contact, so Elias glances back over his shoulder to fix Peter with his stare. "As I said before: what can one man do?"

“I suppose you’ll have to find out,” Peter says, grabbing the lube; he pops the cap and pours some out onto his index and middle fingers, pushing the two back inside of him to finger him in slow, deliberate strokes. “Who knew you’re such a dirty man? Is this what you think about when you’re at home? Getting smacked around by men you don't know? You like to fuck around with dangerous men and see what happens?” His tone doesn't change, but he pulls his fingers out, slicking up his cock and positioning himself behind Elias fully. Knocking his legs into a better place, he doesn't push in _quite_ yet. “Does that sound right, Elias?”

Elias takes it well. It's new, the depth, but Peter really has done an excellent job of getting him ready for it. He's poised but relaxed. Soothed by listening to the litany of accusations. "That's partially accurate," he confirms.

For a moment, Elias bites his tongue on the rest of his response. It's not conventionally bedroom-appropriate. But, monsters being monsters here, Elias speaks up because it makes him _burn_ and he wants to see if Peter will be more aroused or repulsed by what he has to say. "Sometimes I think about _being_ the dangerous man, and all the sweet naïve things who would agree that I am. Pity they aren't around to say that anymore. Or, well, most of them. I do keep the eyes."

Now, for all Peter whinged and complained about having to do things for his family because of the darker dealings they made their continued fortune off of in modern times, the work itself? Is incredibly satisfying. Running drugs or weapons or whatever was going to make them more money was thrilling, as were the threats and bribes and the _violence_ along the way. Not that Peter was also a senseless man, he knew well enough where to draw the line with the physical, but getting that taste of true, agonizing, mind-numbing fear? He is a man that _vividly_ appreciates digging into someone’s head until his god is fed.

It is a shame he’s a _touch_ impatient, because as much as he wants to tease Elias into _actually_ begging for him, Peter is _aching_ to sink into him. And so he does, positioning himself with one hand and sinking in with a groan. Slow for _himself,_ watching as he says, “How dangerous can one man be?” Parroting back what he had said to him. He’s genuinely curious, taunting him with, “You sit at your Institute, behind your desk with your paperwork and your _secrets,_ can't imagine you getting your hands dirty like that.” Pulling his hips back, he starts up a hard pace, gripping Elias by the hips hard.

Elias gathers the bedsheets in his two fists and holds his breath. The stretch is a strain, but Elias wouldn't say it's painful. The bitemark on his thigh stung more than that. He forces calm into his muscles on an exhale. That's a _lot_ and Elias anticipates getting railed into incoherency before the night is out.

Before that, though, he wants to have a good time pushing back against the taunts. He's not sure why he cares this much about Peter's opinion of him. Elias Bouchard doesn't have much of a reputation yet and it's expected that Peter wouldn't think much of him, but he'd been preoccupied with his own pride all evening and wants to give it more of an outlet. At the very least, it's incentive for Peter to wreck him further.

"Then I'll help you along." Physical contact helps a great deal towards the clarity of vision he could share, although this is certainly the first time Elias tried to do it with a cock in his ass.

Elias relives the memory of kneeling on his office floor with James Wright awkwardly laid out on the settee. There is a very necessary towel spread under his head and neck. Elias' shirtsleeves are rolled up past his elbows, and little flecks of blood and other fluid dot the span of his forearms. His fingers are stained with it, gathered underneath his fingernails and in the wrinkles of his knuckles.

The vision is monocular and there is an awful lot of red-tinged blinking.

James is seemingly alive, through this. His one remaining eyeball is being eased out of its socket by some horrifyingly specific surgical tool in Elias' steady hands. The eye is resting unnaturally on top of his flesh, tethered only by its optic nerve, and still James' chest is rising and falling. Elias picks up the scissors.

The Elias in the bed cuts the memory off at that point. Peter is free to make of that what he liked—even to believe that all of that was fabricated. Elias' face isn't visible to him, so that's not going to be much of a help. "What, did you actually think James died of _old age._ " Elias rocks back spitefully to meet him as if daring Peter to continue.

Peter lets out an unexpected laugh as the vision plays out, feeling a little bit like he's had the air knocked out of him as he bottoms out into Elias again. Quite a _gross_ bit of viscera to have been shown, but seeing who he knows is Elias go so far as to murder and steal the eyes of James Wright sends a shiver up his spine. So, he _is_ dangerous, and he does have what it takes to keep up with their peers in their line of work. The thought is comforting, and _certainly_ makes him want to fuck him even more.

He thrusts faster, sticking with the hard thrusts. “I like a bit of blood now and again, seems like you do too Elias. Did he scream? Did you get close to him and let him bend you over his desk enough times to trust you before you gouged his eyes out?” Leaning down closer to Elias, he bites at his shoulder, one of his hands also moving down to splay out over the soft skin of Elias’ stomach. He's looking to tease him, refusing to jerk him off or give him any other stimulation but for his cock rocking in and out of him.

"Something like that." Elias doesn't want to go searching through memories two decades old while he's trying to enjoy himself. He'd teased enough to make his point. Peter was playing along, and that in itself was darkly intriguing. Not what he'd expect of a Lukas. A face-to-face murder can be such an intimate act and Elias wonders if it's antithetical to their patron to get that directly involved. Either the Lukases have people for that kind of thing, or they'll leave an unfortunate victim out for the elements to scour their bones. (Jonah learned that lesson early, thoroughly, and hard.)

Peter is doing a remarkable job of commanding his attention, caught as he is between his teeth and cock and hand. Elias yelps and his abdomen shakes, pleading with Peter to just _touch him already_ when he would not say those words aloud. And that _cock._ Elias didn't know how much he missed this—all the fullness and the warmth. He lowers himself down onto his elbows, shuddering and keening, because the feeling was delightful before but that was _worlds_ better. "Don't come like this," he gasps over the lurid sounds of skin hitting skin. "I want you to finish in my mouth."

The angle change makes Peter groan, but finishing off in Elias’ mouth? That sounds like an _excellent_ idea. He’s just not sure if he has the stamina to hold off long enough to get Elias off first. Though, he doesn't want to draw it out for too long. Biting again closer to the back of his neck, Peter moves his hand down closer to the base of Elias’ dick, pressing into the sensitive skin there. “And I want to hear you tell me to tug you off. Or do you want to see if I can make you come without touching you?”

Moving his hand back to Elias’ hip, he slows his pace a bit to focus on hitting the right angle, grinding his hips on every hard thrust. It doesn't stay there long though, Peter making room between them for his hand to go down so he can press his thumb against Elias’ perineum, rubbing in circles down to behind his balls and presses against the soft flesh.

Almost as if electrocuted, Elias bucks backwards against Peter's thumb and huffs in frustration when the too-eager movement knocks it off-center. He takes the scene from the perspective of the tie bar's eye on the nightstand, seeing himself in all of his trembling angles. Takes in Peter's softness and the tension in him too. Peter is flushed pink in his cheeks and his chest, and Elias wears that same colour in his array of marks and in his aching cock. What a picture the two of them make.

"Either," Elias hurries to answer. It's not going to take very much at all to get him off. Hell, getting _spanked_ again would do it, probably.

Speeding up his hips again, Peter _knows_ he is getting close, rather disappointed in himself for how he'd like to really go the distance with this. Not to say he’s done _already,_ of course, because it's quite easy to find the willpower to stop his movements, grabbing Elias by the base of his dick and squeezing _tight._ It fits nicely in his hand, the weight and warmth making him think of how he's going to have it down his throat soon enough on a fair bet. Still, Peter is not feeling all that charitable, and he keeps his grip even as Elias squirms. “Oh, but I’m going to need more than _that,_ Mr. Bouchard. I’m also _terrible_ at making decisions like this, what do you want me to do?”

Elias clenches fiercely down around him, and even _that_ much sensation very nearly does him in. In third-person view he watches himself writhe about and fail to get any relief from arching into Peter's fist. Sees the arrogant expression on his partner's face. Elias rather wants to punch it.

 _"I don't know."_ Elias hangs his head, grimacing towards the mattress. In truth, he wants too much of everything. Wants the decision to be taken _out of his hands._ If the decision-making is done for him, then he doesn't have to beg. And if he doesn't have to beg, then he doesn't have to run the risk of Peter discarding and ignoring whatever he's vulnerable enough to ask him. Elias shudders in a breath. Swallows. "I want what you want. I don't _want_ a choice."

_“Ohhhh,_ if only you'd called me ‘Sir’ at the end of that,” Peter says, rocking his hips against Elias again while keeping a steady hold on his cock. He knows he's likely pushing the envelope _much_ too far for a one, perhaps two-night stand. “I’m feeling generous, Elias, I’ll touch you,” he says while his other hand moves from Elias’ hip, reaching around for the head of his dick. Once he finds it, Peter is the opposite of nice, gently playing with his foreskin. His forefinger rubs the wet patch on the head, smearing his precome around. He keeps it up with rubbing, holding him tight, rocking against him in smooth, deliberate thrusts while huffing first breath. But he's close, and knows he can’t keep himself from the inevitable much longer, letting the base of Elias’ dick go so he can jerk him off.

_That_ comment strikes a chord. Elias gets halfway to rising and turns to savage Peter with the force of his glare. He doesn't say a word. Nor does he act on his spite. But there are times when mocking comments are completely uncalled for, and Elias feels the need to make that _abundantly_ clear. The oppressiveness of the threat in the air is slow to fade and lasts beyond Elias releasing him from eye contact.

Elias does have Peter's generosity, at least in physicality. That's the part he's after anyway. With that help Elias gradually builds himself back up to his former pleasant mood. Doing that is not a calm process but a masochistic one. Elias doesn't try to ease his tension but redoubles his commitment to it, _slamming_ back to meet the cock driving into him. Peter's hands on him are torturous until they abruptly aren't, and Elias no longer has room for thoughts or emotions inside of him apart from blistering relief.

Peter knows he fucked up when he feels the oppressive weight of the goddamned Eye on him, but it’s more _funny_ than actually scary in this moment. Figures that Elias would draw a line at that, so he doesn't push the envelope any further. Especially because he’s rather done now, ready to find his release and kick Mr. Bouchard out. 

Once Elias comes, Peter pulls out and grabs him by the waist, flipping him over onto his back quite suddenly and easily for how he just _goes_ with it. The whole overbearing Eye thing set him back a bit, but Peter lines back up and pushes back into Elias, pushing his thighs back until they touch the bed and starting an absolutely _brutal_ pace. Hard, fast, pushed on by looking down at how much of a debauched _mess_ his company looks and the little fucked out noises meeting his own grunts. When he's had enough, he remembers Elias’ original request, and well, he _did_ say he's in a generous mood. 

Pulling out, Peter pulls the condom off, tossing it to the floor to be dealt with later. And he scoots up the bed, sitting next to Elias’ head so he can pull him up by his shoulders and push the head of his cock against his lips. “Open up.”

Being folded up and ravaged burns and the pain is going to haunt him for days, but Elias is quite fine with that if it's going to summon up the memory of this overwhelming everything. Distantly he knows that Peter's going to be dealing with his own share of soreness tomorrow and that's a charming thought all on its own. The man certainly does have some stamina.

Elias doesn't need to be told twice to get to work on Peter's cock. He's downright _aggressive_ about jerking him off and bobbing his head. His mouth is sloppy but his hand is sure. Peter hadn't shown him tenderness and he fully intends to reciprocate in kind.

Peter appreciates the earnest attempt, groaning at the feel of his tongue again. It really is a shame that he hadn't known just how much Elias could take before, he would have finished down his throat then despite the vomit. It doesn't take Peter long from there at all, grabbing Elias by the hair and keeping him in place while he comes. He feels it down to his bones, grunting with the force. But he does pull out just enough to hit lips, spurting against his cheek finally as he goes soft. It takes a moment to compose himself, but he still pants as he says, “You might want to take a good look at yourself, how _filthy_ you look laying here all fucked out. I could fuck you again if I didn't want you out of my room in the next five minutes.” 

Now that he's finished, Peter would like a bit of _solitude,_ especially now that lust isn't clouding his brain. A bit stupid to take him up on his bet, especially one that was a _promise_ of something else. A favour, to be cashed in later, a _connection._ Disgusting. Peter gets up from the bed and grabs his cigarettes from the nightstand and heads over to the balcony doors, opening them so he can step out into the night air and light up.

Brusque, but expected. There's a vulnerable human part of Elias that protests against the abandonment, but his practical sense is the louder voice in the room, explaining that if he was looking for a bit of post-coital comfort then he shouldn't have fucked a Lukas. This is just how they operate. Elias doesn't _approve,_ but he understands.

He doesn't spend too much time alone in the bed. Just enough to catch his breath for a few moments before he stumbles off to the bathroom. Leaning heavily against the counter, Elias gets a look at himself in the mirror and scoffs at how correct Peter was. He looks like an utter disaster—exhausted, sated, and wearing Peter's come on his cheek. Elias thumbs at it and puts it on his tongue, and it's intensely bitter from all the drinks in Peter's system and dry in the way a white wine is. He thinks he may just have the palate for it.

Elias takes significantly more than five minutes to take a proper shower, dress in his pyjama set, and generally make himself look presentable. Peter is still smoking on the balcony by the time he's finished up. Elias gives him a few more moments of solitude to gather up his things and bundle them in his suit jacket. Then he heads over to lean against the balcony door.

"You know, you're a right prick, but that's still the best sex I've had in ages."

Peter only feels annoyed at himself for letting this get so far, though, it had been _good._ Worth it? He’s not sure yet if the whole song and dance of bringing one Elias Bouchard a drink is going to bring him anything but misery. Now they have tentative _plans_ for a returned _favour,_ and the mere concept makes Peter Lukas spit off his balcony. 

He listens to Elias showering, taking _much_ longer than his five minutes. But as soon as he comes out and gathers his things, Peter turns to face him, still naked as the day he was born as he leans back against the railing with his elbows perched on it. “I’ll give you that, you’re a good lay. Shame I underestimated how much you could take earlier, won't be making that mistake again.” He points toward him with his cigarette after taking a drag, “Now off you go, can't have you hanging around, there's bound to be _quite_ a few people finally heading back here from the reception.”

Now that the situation is no longer an overtly sexual one, the casual nudity doesn't stir much of anything in Elias. It'd be difficult to get much of anything done in the office if he was crass about his voyeurism.

Elias likes the praise and lets that show in his smirk. "I don't take orders from you, _Captain_ Lukas." Wouldn't call him 'Sir' in bed, but would absolutely call him 'Captain' now. "But I'll go. You know how to get in touch." Elias pushes himself off the doorframe, nods to Peter, and goes to leave. "Be seeing you."

Nodding to him, Peter mock salutes with his cigarette hand, “Bouchard.” Short and sweet, glad to finally be alone once the door closes to his room. Cheeky thing, breaking and entering, stealing his name out of secrecy, and very nearly pulling some _very_ private desires out of his head. Once he reciprocates the blowjob, he will be quite happy to never have to cross paths again. An unrealistic wish at worst, a laughable omen at best. He knows his family will continue to do business with the Watcher, therefore also with Elias Bouchard. 

Thinking about the murder of James Wright, he wonders just how many people are privy to that knowledge—can't be too many since nobody else had mentioned anything about it. Or he wonders if it’s a secret that he's being let in on now? Not that it matters, Peter would not be telling anyone. 

Finishing his smoke, he crushes the butt into the ashtray on the table just away from the doors, then goes back inside, closing the door behind him. And now that he's alone, he takes a look around the room and looks at the state of it. There are a couple of buttons scattered on the dark carpet, standing out for the pearly colour of them. His clothes he will pick up later, or perhaps not, since they're from Simon, and he'd rather not have a reminder of tonight. But what he _does_ see near the used condom on the floor is a pair of briefs that certainly do _not_ belong to him.

Huffing out a laugh, he shuts the lamp off and lays awake for a while, thinking about everything and coming to the conclusion that Elias has gotten him much too close to some very uncomfortable things without even _trying._ The comment about what if instead of a gag, Elias shoved his underclothes into his mouth? It was getting under Peter’s skin _now,_ now that the very same article of clothing was innocently sitting on the floor waiting to be picked up. And Peter resists the temptation for _much_ too long, staring at the pair across the room from where he's perched on the bed. 

Ultimately, it is unfortunate that curiosity and desire win out. Groaning to himself, Peter gets up, sitting on the edge of the bed and thinking long and hard again about it. He has _plenty_ of material to keep him company on a long, lonely voyage, knowing that his romp with Bouchard had also been the best sex he's had in a long time too. But the burning feel of need far outweighed any shame he might be feeling, so he gets up and walks the few paces to where the pair of briefs had been sitting on the floor, practically taunting him. Grabbing them, he takes a look at them, holding them up by the elastic. It’s been a few hours, sure, but the moment he brings the fabric to his nose, the scent of sweat and the slight hint of _musk_ is almost dizzying. 

Elias had been too close to being right, which makes this so much _worse._ Peter, though, gets on the bed onto his back, cradling the garment to his face as his hand goes for his cock. If he were in a position to, he would roll his eyes at himself for being so _insatiable,_ but as it is, he's got his eyes closed in the closest thing to bliss he will admit to while he inhales the scent again. And if he jerks off, so what?

Elias, by nature, is a highly self-conscious man. He's not entirely certain whether that came about from living under Beholding's gaze, from his frequent use of its blessings, or if it was some quirk of his psyche that long preceded the day he first heard about the dread powers. Constantly, he's correcting the little things about his appearance whenever he sees them, and he sees much more of them than the average person when he can look upon himself in third person with but a thought. The world to him is one of mirrors and wondering what other people see when they look at him. _Especially_ during the adjustment period of having a fresh new body. Elias is still figuring a lot of things out.

It's not uncommon for Elias, then, to not realize just how much energy he was spending on self-observation until he was alone. Unwatched. Or, well, _less_ -watched. Elias mentally breathes a sigh of relief once he's back in his own space. What he wants is a strong drink to help himself relax, but he doesn't want to risk enduring the long flight back to the UK with a hangover tomorrow. Elias ignores the bottles of liquor in the mini-fridge and goes for orange juice and water instead, adjusting the remaining bottles to better hide his passport and wallet. (Take notes, Peter. People don't check the _fridge_ when doing room sweeps.) To get his blood sugar back up he considers having one of the granola bars, but he doesn't think his abused throat would be able to handle that very well at all. So Elias grabs the bag of dried apricots and his edibles and settles down in bed. Edibles aren't his preference and cannabis isn't Jonah's usual poison, but it _is_ Elias' and he did handle it well. And, admittedly, the recipe for "Haschich Fudge"1 really is quite good.

Among the decorations back at the wedding reception, there is a poster board full of travel photos of the happy couple. Elias borrows Harriet Fairchild's eyes from her spot on top of Machu Picchu to see how things are going. The reception appears to be winding down, with waitstaff starting to clear off some of the banquet. Nothing terribly interesting is happening, and Elias doesn't recognize any important guests from his point of view. He disengages, switching his vision over to a portrait in the hotel lobby to watch Adelard Dekker making his way through. _Gertrude's_ friend. Earlier this evening was his first time greeting him as Elias, and his contact with him as James had been limited. Elias doesn't have much of an opinion of the man except to regard him with the pragmatic wariness which came from his choice in companionship.

He may as well just turn on the TV to find something interesting to watch, and Elias considers it. But before that, he checks back in with Peter, curious to see if he'd moved the tie bar from where he'd left it on his nightstand. He hadn't. And, oh, he _should have,_ because Elias is instantly and avidly intrigued by what he sees. That _repulsive_ man, touching himself to the scent of used underwear. _Well._

Even with the, begrudgingly admitted, _extremely_ satisfying sex he'd had, Peter has no trouble getting his dick back up. Especially with the memory of Elias saying he'd gag him with his underwear, having his face pressed against it like this springs the interest right back into him. Though it's not the first time he's had a sniff of someone’s dirty laundry, it’s the first time he's so brazenly touched himself to it. Shuddering and moaning as he works himself up. 

But going at himself dry when he has lube around is doing a disservice to himself, so he puts the underwear down to sit up and find where the bottle had gone. And he does find it on the floor, having to get up to get it, then laying back down and popping the cap so he can lube himself up. The relief is _instant,_ moaning quietly as he jerks himself off. The obscene sound of wet on skin does a lot for recalling Elias’ mouth on him, and once he picks up the man’s briefs and takes another whiff of that near _intoxicating_ scent, moaning louder with it.

Leaving his clothing behind was a calculated move on Elias' part. His intention was just to antagonize Peter by giving him a concrete sign of what he'd done and force him to think about what it meant to allow a person close. In particular, one person who understood what it was like to move through life as he did. Regret or longing are equally interesting to Elias, and he would like to have an idea about which of them is present. Elias hadn't expected _this_ outcome.

Catching people in their private moments is a treat, every time. Usually it's people talking to themselves. People do so much planning and working out their personal issues aloud, and Elias was generally able to grab at least one tasty morsel from listening in. Feeding the god and partaking of the meal himself. Masturbation was rarer but it fueled him much the same. The _names_ people would murmur. The _things_ they would do. A person's pornography habits could be particularly telling and Elias pays close attention to these whenever he has the chance. And when it's a person who he actually intends to sleep with, Elias is _particularly_ attentive.

In his element of solitude, Peter seems so much less guarded. Elias tries to be an impartial observer but the judgments filter in. Peter must be insatiable, to be this hard and eager so soon after their encounter. And of course he can only be this into it when he's _alone._ Elias hadn't heard him moan like that. He takes that as both an affront and a personal challenge for the next time they meet.

Observing Peter is getting him a touch worked up, but Elias doesn't want to distract himself aside from his eating and drinking. He does undress, though. Once Peter was done he'd indulge himself, perhaps.

Peter, as he is, knows that to be caught like this would be an unending, horrible nightmare for him. If anyone else were to walk in, or, god forbid, Elias broke the lock again, huffing dirty underwear is not a charming look on him. But the _thought_ of it really gets him. To be thought of as vile and disgusting, called a pervert… It helps him along much more than he wants to admit. If Elias were watching… 

And then he feels it, the pinpricks of being _watched._ Looking around the room as he jerks himself off, the decor is all pottery and flowers, nothing even vaguely shaped like an eye. That is, until he sees Elias’ tie bar, looking right at him and through him. He’s not sure if he wants to get up and fling it off the balcony or just keep on going, the latter winning out as he closes his eyes and hums. He _had_ been about to stuff the garment into his mouth, and he rethinks that, not sure he wants Elias to see that kind of behaviour just yet from him. Or at _all._ Next time, he would be much more careful about checking for eyes and cleaning up. Assuming they got this far into a next time, because Peter would rather not have his space invaded again.

Ah, there it is. Peter is catching on. Elias would understand if Peter took steps to ensure his privacy, whether by disposing of the tool or by wrapping himself in Isolation, but he is pleased to see him continue. 

The paranoia makes the picture even better. Elias knows that Peter knows what's happening, and being in the thoughts of an attractive man with a hand around his dick is always flattering. He doesn't look away. Both for himself in the moment and plausible deniability later, because being scared off by the subject looking back was a human thing to do. If confronted about it, Elias could just say that Peter must have caught his patron's interest. The Eye didn't blink. Neither would he.

The gaze is _intense,_ Peter knowing he's caught and grunting as he feels the humiliation catch up with him. Part of him wants to slip away into the static of the Lonely, but to do that would be admitting defeat to Elias. As if to show that he cares at all for his opinion. As far as he's concerned, Elias is a stranger that he unfortunately slept with. 

But that does spur him on, stopping his hand only to grab the underwear so he can use them to jerk off into. It doesn't take much longer, begrudgingly turned on by being watched, hitting his orgasm with a grunt and bucking his hips up into his hand. It’s not as satisfying as he wants—Peter would have preferred to be alone for this after all—but as he catches his breath, he says to the empty room, “Did you like that one Bouchard?”

A couple of floors down in the hotel, Elias raises his orange juice to him in a mock toast. A delightful performance. To let Peter clean himself up in peace, Elias pulls his vision back to himself.

He does turn on the television, in the end. Being alone with his thoughts in a silent room before the edibles hit didn't sound terribly pleasant, so he flips through the channels until he finds reruns of _The X-Files_ for his background noise.

Peter Lukas. Elias is proud of himself for winning that bet, because that means he gets to make him into a _project._ What exactly did he get up to when he wasn't being forced into attending weddings? What was his upbringing like? What were his motivations in sticking with the family business? He hadn't married into it, surely. Elias wants to get to know him, circuitously, because 'getting to know him' in the direct and typical sense would surely make him bolt.

An hour later, when a comfortable haze has settled over his mind, Elias gets himself off. It is gentle in all the ways Peter had not been. He thinks about strong hands pinning him down more than he cares to admit.

In contrast, Peter actually does take the tie pin in his hand, and _almost_ throws it out the window, but figures he’ll hold onto it instead in his toiletries bag. Popping open the Simon-gifted bottle of booze, Peter stands again for a _long_ while on the balcony, drinking away his thoughts. The air is cool around him, even with the warmth of the tropics tinging it. He opted to grab the bathrobe though, wearing it open while watching the ocean ebb and flow. The calmness really did wonders to relax him, especially after being so thoroughly _involved._ He had probably said more words to Elias Bouchard than he had to anyone in the past six _months._ Half of them absolutely filthy, but still _words._

Now, though, he _knows_ he is a fool, having let Elias get the better of him like that. To the point where he had his name, though, it would have come out sooner or later. Peter _should_ have minded his own business, should have never brought him a drink, either. Bit too late for the should’ves, but if Peter had kept to himself? No doubt, he would not be lamenting on a balcony at two in the morning getting drunk on his own. 

Blissful silence, though, reigns. The gentle breeze whipping around and the calm of the ocean waves in the distance does a lot to soothe his soul. Bathed in moonlight with the glittering ocean as his backdrop, face lit just barely by the cherry on his cigarette, it all seems a bit melodramatic. It feels good though, in lieu of returning to his own fog.

Elias had gotten too chummy with him much too quick, the memory of little flecks of gentleness making him sneer into the air. Preposterous. 

When the moon hangs low on the horizon and the sky starts lightening, that is when Peter turns in, falling asleep quite uneasily after some time. His dreams are plagued by things he would rather not think about, things like soft lips against his and hands _knowing_ him. Being seen. And conversely, he sees miles of empty hallways and silent, towering trees. Windows too big to touch the top of, and beds too small to sleep in. He dreams of being left to cry himself to sleep when he was too young to understand why the only praise he even faintly got was when he was quiet and sitting in the corner by himself. If one could call a less cold gaze and a nod _affectionate._ Left alone to his own devices turning into cultivating his own experience to continue on that path. A mean and terrible existence, hating any noise that was not the sound of nature, ignoring his nannies and tutors until they punished him for his complete disobedience. They distort with every word, every movement, until their bodies are a mess of limbs and intent to harm him.

He is spanked, in clothes and with his trousers down, by hand and by object. He is taught painstakingly how to read, how to do maths, all of it blending together as one homogenous nightmare that he can't escape from, surrounded by people from his past that he couldn't remember the faces of. Too many people at once, and all Peter could do was lay there with his eyes closed and his hands over his ears to stop the _noise._ Talking and laughing and _ringing,_ so much _ringing_ in his ears, it wouldn't _stop._ Unconsciousness spinning and swimming and fighting to drop into his patron’s paradise, unable to while he is in this nightmare hellscape. 

The soft lips are back, kissing his eyelids, then his forehead, down to each cheek. His nose, his chin, and then his lips. The sound of his heart beating drowns out the sound of being chastised, and the feel of a hand at his throat grounds him. Peter refuses to look, to even dare know what the entity wants from him. He can feel it moving their hand down, digging their fingers into his chest, the pain feeling both exquisite and _monstrous._ It _aches,_ to have his organs displaced, to have his heart held so tightly. His head hurts _much_ worse though, for the other hand digging into his skull and gripping his grey matter so hard it feels like his head is going to _explode._

The lips are at his ear, kissing just under the lobe gently before the figure is taking it between their teeth and tugging. 

**"Peter."**

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Footnotes:**  
>  1 “Haschich Fudge” is a recipe first published in _The Alice B. Toklas Cook Book_ in 1954. It’s a (frankly delicious-sounding) no-bake spiced fruit, nut, and sativa affair. If you're curious, the recipe can be found [here](https://lithub.com/here-it-is-alice-b-toklass-recipe-for-hash-brownies). [return to text]
> 
>   
> what up it's jen, you can find me on tumblr @jennyloggins, and on twitter at both @somegarbageisok on main and @slimejen for tma/video game posting. i have nothing to say for myself for my immeasurable crimes
> 
> Leto can be found on twitter @quickenedsilver, and tumblr @auto-didact (general) and @divorcecravat (TMA). hope you enjoyed this filth.
> 
> Many thanks for TimonTomato for help with the editing!
> 
>  **Content warnings:**  
>  Drug use, eye horror, graphic descriptions of surgery, humiliation, light asphyxiation, rimming, under-negotiated BDSM, underwear sniffing, vomiting, voyeurism. [return to top]


	2. Mimosa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Lukas is hungover and trapped in a plane with Simon Fairchild for several hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click to view content warnings.

**"Peter."**

Waking up with a start, the _first_ thing Peter notices is that he has a hangover the size of Russia, skull throbbing with the force. The _second_ thing he notices is that Nathaniel has taken it upon himself to be his in-person wake up call, and the man is standing just far enough away looking at him disdainfully that his personal space doesn't feel _too_ invaded.

“What?” It comes out as a low groan, _really_ not ready to be awake yet.

“You’ve missed an hour of wake up calls and the jet leaves in forty-five minutes. Get up,” Just as stony as ever.

“Got it, I’ll be there.”

“See that you are.”

Once he leaves, Peter sighs and begins the arduous process of getting up, getting his things together, and leaving the room. He doesn't even spare a glance to the used condom still on the carpet, and _definitely_ not to the underclothes he'd spent himself all over.

While Peter was off having his _nasty_ little nightmares, Simon Fairchild was enjoying a pleasant brunch with the family and some of the esteemed guests down in the glassed-in hotel dining room. Most of them have filtered out to get on with their sightseeing or flights back home, saying their goodbyes and wheeling their luggage out from the collection gathered in the corner. Simon stayed, because he's always had a voracious appetite and a furnace of a metabolism. And because he wants to finish his mimosa.

Simon lights up at Peter's approach while he's still a distance out. He's been keeping an eye on the door ever since Nathaniel went to collect him. "Oh _good,_ you're not dead. I was starting to get worried!" He gestures towards one of the unused place settings at the table, near to him. "Come, sit down, get some coffee in you."

Peter hoped to get something solid in him in peace, maybe chug a gallon of water. At the very least, he had the foresight to pack aspirin. Of course, Simon is lounging about just _waiting_ to _talk._ The thought of it is _disgusting,_ but he obliges, sitting down at the table with him. “If I were dead, I wouldn't have to hear your voice right now. I’ll take some coffee, though.” 

Once his cup is poured and fixed, he takes a sip, glad for the warmth of it even if he is ready to leave the tropics quite thoroughly. “My uncle would have me believe that were I to sleep a second longer, I would be left here.”

" _Goodness,_ you _have_ had a rough night," Simon teases. He knows the look of a man with a splitting hangover and keeps his voice accommodatingly quiet. Even pulls the bread basket closer to Peter's plate and shifts the breakfast fixings around, because he's just that nice. "Too much socializing? Meet too many interesting people?" Simon grins, knowing that Peter knows he's being rhetorical.

If he were to admit to anything right now, it would be that he is grateful for Simon speaking quieter, and of course the breakfast. It only occurs to him now that besides one little piece of food stolen off another man’s plate eighteen hours ago would only serve to make him _ravenous._ Though, he does try to be civilized about shoving food onto his plate. He doesn't rise to the taunt, instead saying, “Remind me to never come to a Fairchild wedding again, far too rowdy for my tastes, lovely as it was.”

"You never did know how to have fun." Simon elbows him for that, though he appreciates hearing that the wedding was lovely outside of the actual wedding. He'd thought it lovely too. Coffee sounds like a grand idea now that Peter's drinking it and he makes himself a cup. "But you found yourself a quiet corner for a while there—don't think I didn't notice. With that— oh, what was his name? The new Magnus boy."

Magnus? _Oh,_ right, The Magnus Institute, head of it now Elias Bouchard, new bane of his existence. Peter distinctly remembers Elias showing him the memory of James Wright’s murder, bloodstained hands and clothing and nifty little surgical tools everywhere. “Elias Bouchard?” A twat, through and through. He would be happy to never see him again. “Boring fellow, that one.”

"Yes, _that's_ it." The spoon clicks against the side of his cup as Simon stirs the sugar in with no milk or cream to speak of. "Bouchard." That name is going to take some getting used to. It'd taken Simon a year to get Wright's name down. People came and went so _quickly._

Simon waves the spoon towards Peter's face, checking to see if he's paying attention. "I don't know if I agree. He'll surprise you, I think."

“Really?” Peter says, not noticing the implication for an extended moment before he backs up and puts his fork down. “You know, he asked me to help introduce him to some people, and especially said he hadn't had a chance to have a ‘proper chat’ with _you_ yet. You don't know his name, but you know him well enough that he is apparently _not_ boring. So, what are you not telling me?”

He has… no desire to know Elias any more than he had, but this is _not_ a coincidence nor a simple case of an older man going senile early. There is a gap in his knowledge, and Peter is _not_ about to let this go.

Does Peter not know? Does he honestly not know? This _is_ going to be a fun flight back, isn't it. "Oh, he talked about me? I'm flattered." With exaggerated cheer, Simon lifts up the coffee cup to blow on it. It's cooled enough to make the gesture completely unnecessary. He lets Peter stew and takes a long sip. "Mm, I'm going to have to have a 'proper chat' with old Nathaniel. Shouldn't be surprised, I suppose. Your family isn't much of one for gossip."

Huffing to himself, he picks his fork back up and says, “I don't know what that means, and I do not want to know. I’d like to be left out of it.” He has no desire to know anything more about _this,_ or about Bouchard. Actually, he’s quite done with breakfast too, repulsed at the thought of any sort of impending conversation with his uncle, a most detestable person in his own right, always so sour with him especially. And now he has to be enclosed with Nathaniel _and_ Simon, on a plane, for far too many hours.

"My, aren't you grumpy today." Simon has known Peter for long enough to know when he needs his space. He gets that little _scowl_ going on. When he was a boy, Simon would have called it a pout. Peter didn't get angry, not even back then. He just shuts down. And, Simon supposes, weddings are a taxing thing for folks walking the path of The One Alone. Funerals fit them better. Simon doesn't even want to think about how _dreadful_ a Lukas funeral would be. He bets they don't even come with a bar.

Simon continues playing the good host in ushering his guests onto the jet with a minimum of conversation. He's even proud of himself for his ability to quietly listen to songs and work on compositions in his sketchbook for a couple of hours. His attention keeps drifting out the window, and back to his page, where he's carving out clouds with the side of his pencil. The musical album finishes playing and he turns his Discman off.

"So," he says to Peter, sat beside him. "You've had some time to think. I'd like to hear your crackpot theories about Mr. Bouchard."

Peter _has_ had quite a bit of time to close his eyes and try to rest away his hangover by whatever fugue-state sleep he could manage while hearing the whimsical drift of music from Simon’s headphones. It's annoying, sure, but at least quietly contained. 

While resting and thinking, he cannot help mulling over how Elias had said that Simon is seemingly made of bad decisions, though, he also said that he heard many stories _about_ him. That in itself gave him pause into believing anything too wild that he might concoct up in his noggin. But there is something _off_ about it all, in what Simon said.

The only conclusion he can come to is that Elias had been lying to him somehow. Or that they had known each other before Elias was promoted. The way it fits together as a theory feels wrong though. He still can't piece together a concrete thought about him by the time Simon politely asks him to. “If I had a theory to stand on, it would be that some elaborate joke is being played on me. You both don't know each other, and you also do, but you have not met?” 

Peter does not like puzzles, and he is prepared to drop this one _entirely,_ regardless of the truth. It is getting too complicated even without the fact that he slept with Bouchard. If Nathaniel wouldn't find him and skin him alive for dropping his family responsibilities, Peter would disappear into the Lonely for a good long while until he was forgotten about.

While he picks apart what Peter said, Simon spins a tortillon around in his fingers. Away from the page, naturally, because he wouldn't want to smudge anything he doesn't mean to. "Yes, that all sounds about right. Yesterday was the first time I met Mr. Bouchard." Simon's eyes are glittering with mischief, and he sounds altogether too cheery. "And it's not just you, dear. Some elaborate joke is being played on everyone. I just happen to be in the know."

Simon chuckles, just a little, and begins softening the harsh graphite lines into gentle swirls of cloud as he talks. "You know that book I showed you on the way here? The one with all the new space photography? I was going to give it to Halley if I saw him at the wedding. Wasn’t sure if he was going to make it out, but I’m glad he did. So I dip out of the party for a bit to go and get it from my hotel room before I forget, and who do I see scampering through the hallway? Why, Mr. Bouchard, looking _quite_ a disheveled mess in just a bathrobe!" Simon takes a break to get a read on Peter's face. _He's_ certainly amused. "It's a bit rude to skip out that early, but I'm not about to fault him for beating the bride and groom to some fun. _Especially_ at his age."

Peter can feel the cold dread settle into his stomach like an anchor, dragging his internal organs around with each word like it is skipping along the ocean floor before settling. He can vividly remember just what a mess Elias had been, but he had gone off to the shower before he’d seen him don the robe. Part of him absently wishes he could have seen that, but the rest of him tries so _very_ hard to not react. They had quite a bit of ‘fun’ together in the form of extremely gratifying sex, but it has _not_ been worth it. The soul searching after he had no longer been horny? Horrible. 

His body betrays him though, and Peter can _feel_ the flush creeping up his neck, which only serves to feed his anger at himself. His tone is kept tight as he says, “Can’t fault a man who wants to get laid, but I believe that is his business, and none of ours.”

Peter's reaction is so much better than Simon would have thought. He looks like a teenager whose mother has just confronted him about keeping dirty magazines and condoms in his bedroom. "No, but it _is_ a point in his favor against being boring." Simon nods over towards Nathaniel, who hasn't moved for the past hour. "He's not getting up. Sleeping pills are the only way he gets through these things, you know that." Simon keeps his voice stage-whisper low, keeping an eye on Nathaniel to see if he moves. He doesn't. "You can talk to me about it. Are you _jealous,_ Peter?"

“Jealous? Of _what?_ ” Peter turns his head and looks at Simon proper for a moment, seeing the delighted face of glee on an incorrigible old man. And then he looks back at his uncle, sleeping miserably in another seat, who would no doubt have disapproving words for him. “Bouchard can sleep with whomever he pleases, that’s _hardly_ my business,” he says just as tersely, trying to press away from the subject. The last thing he needs is Simon knowing Peter was the one who ruffled him up.

He can feel the sweat build on the back of his neck as he fidgets, stroking his thumbs with his forefingers where they sit in his lap. He shifts his legs too, suddenly _quite_ uncomfortable in his seat. Airplanes _really_ are the worst.

"Oh, you two seemed to be hitting it off at the party, that's all. As much as two emotionally stunted men can manage to flirt, anyway." Peter seems to be taking this awfully personally, and Simon for one would _love_ to be awful and make it too personal. "I didn't see _you_ around at the party after I got back, either. You were so late to get up this morning, too. Should _I_ be the jealous one?" Simon is beaming, teeth white as the sun highlighting the clouds below. "If you tell me yes, I'll let you in on Bouchard's little joke."

But does Peter really want to _know?_ He isn't sure, because admitting to any part of this is creating a chain of understanding, and when he understands, there is a face and a story put to memories, and the last thing Peter could ever conceivably want in this world is a _connection_ like that. To do so would be a disservice to his patron, Nathaniel would have him believe. 

He can't stop thinking, though, about his dream. The hand clenching his heart and the hand reaching into his brain, the soft lips against his own, an omen masked by gentleness. Peter does not have to be a dream scientist (or what _ever_ they are called) to figure out that he'd recreated something similar to his experience in the unconscious world. 

Looking at his uncle again while he leaves Simon hanging, a part of him wants to reject his teachings in this one instance. He is _genuinely_ curious, which is, of course, admitting to sleeping with him, to finding him intriguing, to making losing bets with a man of the Eye. Admitting to his own pure foolishness.

Sighing _deeply,_ Peter presses the heel of his palm against his eye, the closest one to Simon (so he doesn't have to look at him), rubbing as he says, “ _Fine,_ if it will make you stop looking at me like a crazed maniac, I slept with him, it was satisfactory. Now _what_ is his ‘joke’?”

_"Well done!"_ Simon playfully punches Peter in the ribs. "Good, you need some more excitement in your life. We've got to get you a drink to celebrate." Simon snaps to grab the attention of the flight concierge and orders something strong for Peter and something fruity for himself. The poor man looked like he needed it. "That wasn't you kicking him out in the hallway I saw, was it. Please tell me you're not that terrible."

Peter, still hungover, gratefully accepts the strong drink he is given in the hopes that it will alleviate his throbbing head. The aspirin only helped so much, and the brightness of the cabin _is_ quite killing him while he suffers from the acute dehydration symptoms that come from a night of drinking and fucking. It won't help in the slightest after, but any alleviation _now_ is much appreciated.

Now that the cat is out of the bag, though, there is no use acting embarrassed, choosing to go aloof as he says, “He had a bit of a gagging problem, ended up vomiting on the carpet. Out of the _kindness_ of my heart I offered him a toothbrush, but he wanted to use his own.”

Simon is the slightest bit impressed with Peter's boldness, but that gets lost behind his scandalized gasp. "That's too bad." He doesn't say anything about that not matching up with his experiences, although that's definitely what he's thinking. Perhaps Mr. Bouchard had simply overindulged himself at the bar. "The important thing is that you had a good time. I'm happy for you. But I did say that I'd give you some answers—ah, thank you," Simon accepts his drink as it's brought over. While he's been chatting, Simon has also been packing up his art supplies. This is going to be a _talk._

"So. _I'm_ in on his little secret because I knew him back in the day. When he was just a young man, _obsessed_ with the most macabre stories. Building up his own personal library. Trying to make sense of the horrors of this world and the world beyond. And when Smirke started inviting him out to our little meetings, he was _delighted_ to drink up everything he could about the Dread Powers. This was before he'd ever heard of the Ceaseless Watcher, too. Marked from the start, that one." With a sardonic little smile, Simon refreshes himself with his drink before he continues.

"His particular gift is something like Halley's. He's a tad younger than he is though, and certainly younger than me. When Jonah Magnus died, he became somebody else. And then James Wright. And then Elias Bouchard, apparently. I'm not entirely sure on the details of how it works, or if it even _is_ the same thing. I've asked, but he loves his secrets, as I'm sure you've noticed." Given Jonah's proclivities, it's a wonder to Simon how long it took him to get into the market for the nastier business his institute deals in. Or perhaps the establishment was always a purveyor of enticing information and Simon simply hadn't noticed.

"So Magnus gets to watch over his library throughout the years. Like a gargoyle. Or a dragon—he's always had a bit of a hobby for collecting things."

This is _all_ news to Peter. Well, he knows about Simon, but only because he has spent time with him over the years, much to his family’s chagrin. Begrudgingly, he has a friend in him that he does not have in many others in quite the same way. He still remembers the kind middle aged man from his youth who once threw him in the air sixty feet before catching him with the sickest, most horrid grin on his face. It was a time that he had _tasted_ fear, viscerally, thinking himself to be dead. Now, though, he knows he could survive that, but he's always thought it was a Vast thing, to have so many lives to live and to have an unending existence if played carefully. It sounds like a positively _dreadful_ thing, to have to go through with more than one life.

But, Peter won't lie to himself, that is _interesting._ To be played for a fool by Elias’ masquerading around like he is just some newcomer on the scene. Though he _has_ shown him the grotesque imagery that came along with Wright’s death, it begs the question of Elias’ credentials in this whole situation. The _original_ man. A question he does not want to ponder too deeply, considering he never knew him.

Taking another sip of his drink, Peter finally says, “Huh. I certainly didn't expect _that,_ but I suppose it makes some sense.” It doesn't, and it does, but Peter shrugs and looks across the aisle again at his uncle, sleeping away. Without looking back at Simon, he asks, “You knew him then?” He believes him of course, which also explains him saying Elias could _surprise_ him.

Simon peers around Peter's frame for a second, just to make sure that he hasn't noticed Nathaniel waking up or anything like it. Satisfied, he stretches out in his seat to work some of the stiffness out. _"Did I know him,"_ Simon scoffs. "There's hardly a single one of his contemporaries that didn't _know_ him. Even your great-great-whatever, Mordechai Lukas, wasn't immune." Again, Simon checks to confirm that the plane's other passenger is in fact asleep. "Can you keep a secret, Peter?"

The way it is phrased clues Peter in _quite_ thoroughly, already knowing what to expect of the subject matter. If a man as old as Jonah Magnus has _known_ so many people in their respective and collective patrons of choice, suffice to say it won't be chaste. Of course, hearing that an ancestor of his may have also not been, as Simon put it, immune, does make him knock back more of his drink. 

Being asked if he can keep a secret though, now _that_ is funny, and Peter chuckles as he says, “Oh I am _sure_ I can. Loose lips sink ships and all that.” In for a penny, in for a pound at this point in the conversation, Peter figures he may as well get the upper hand on knowing what Elias is all about.

Simon knew there was a reason why Peter is his favourite. He hopes the gossip will be able to lift Peter up out of his dour mood a bit. "Now, this is _important,_ because I'm one of the only witnesses and Mr. Bouchard will know it was me who let the word get out. And cross my heart, all of this is true." Decorum is for stuffy people, in Simon's opinion. That's not how he likes to operate. "Back at our little get-togethers—and these were lengthy things, you understand, since people traveled in from all over. Jonah would arrive, be a right proper gentleman, keep up with our conversations about the nature of the Dread Powers and their rituals and all that. Intellectual pursuits.

"But the next day he'd be the _entertainment._ He wasn't even told to do this. He _volunteered._ Jonah was a charming lad, and glad to let most anyone there have a go at him. And carnal pleasures are _fun,_ don't get me wrong, but that's not exactly unheard of in secret societies. That's not the wild part." Simon's grin curls from ear to ear at all the fond and wicked memories. "The _wild_ part is when we'd get to feast on his fear. An absolute maniac, that Jonah. He'd agree to things—even suggest them, sometimes—that would drive a lesser man to madness. We _broke_ him, so many times, and he kept on coming back!"

While he thinks up some concrete examples and gives Peter a minute to process all of that information, Simon polishes off his cocktail. Without the glass, he has more freedom to speak with his hands. "I've tricked his brain into thinking he was falling enough times for him to _actually_ black out. I've drugged him and fucked him when he was already ruined, narrating him through the breadth of the universe. I even waterboarded him once. His idea. He liked it, I think."

He would _love_ to pretend that none of this has an effect on him, he really would, but Peter truly is a weak man. He thinks about all he has done to Elias and how apparently, he can take _much_ more than he had with him. Waterboarding? Drugged and thrown through the throes of the Vast? He trusts that this is all true, because Simon is not one to lie so thoroughly to him, not about a subject like this. For his glass being now near empty, his throat is _dry_ just trying to imagine Elias afraid out of his mind, but still begging for more. Begging to be destroyed and it never being enough. 

“I suppose that makes him perfect for Beholding, then. Those of the Eye make themselves on _knowing,_ so…” Taking a deep breath and finishing off his glass soon after, the gears in his head turn. “He’s the Watcher?” The head of the Magnus Institute remained Jonah, meaning the secret behind closed doors about who the Watcher is… it is right out in the open, a _bold_ move.

" _That_ I couldn't tell you. But I don't think so." Simon's face twists up into a half-grimace. "There's just too much going on for one person to handle the day-to-day business _and_ keep an eye on everything all at once, don't you think? Mr. Bouchard's not a _god._ I think the Watcher is a team of people. The Magnus Institute's own private MI6." The intrigue in that holds a certain appeal for Simon, even if it's just a theory. He shrugs. "I'd take that with a grain of salt, though. I didn't deal with Wright much in person, and I'd usually just treat him to lunch or dinner if I had to pay a visit. That place gives me the heebie-jeebies."

Simon _does_ have a point, so perhaps not. It’s certainly a lot to think about in the meantime between their next meeting, whenever it may be. Having such information about Elias is _delightful,_ actually, and for once he can see the appeal of knowledge. “I’ve heard as such, doesn't really seem to be a place I’d want to go to myself. Either way, I will admit, maybe Bouchard is a little less boring than I thought, but he is still nothing special.” Not personally, at least. Sexually? That’s another story entirely, and if Simon was truly not pulling his leg, then he would have to test Elias out further.

"See, you Lukases, you get to move around unnoticed. The Forever Blind's people, too. Walking into the Watcher's domain is _easy_ for you! It's not fair." Simon crosses his arms, thinking about the prickling sensation that creeps up the back of his neck sometimes when he's on the phone with Jonah Magnus. Does everyone at the Institute get that? Are they just used to it? "I swear, the last time I set foot in there was nearly as bad as being on mephedrone.1 If you're curious, don't be. It's horrid stuff. Only did it the once."

Huffing out a laugh, Peter says, “Not to worry, I am not going to be taking any drugs and walking up to that place any time soon.” Peter isn't really one for drugs in the first place, too much thinking involved. To much joy comes with it, the kind that is based in loving humankind and other such nonsense like that. “But I wouldn't call it _easy,_ there are so many… people around, these days. People with money who go places to spend it. I can hardly walk down the street at night in the winter without seeing _crowds_ of people.”

Isn't that the truth. A sense of solitude is hard to find with so many people around, and Simon understands this. What actually bothers him is trying to get a look at the sky over so many sets of shoulders. Today, people are pushing the known boundaries of the deepest oceans, and for the last few decades, (with many more to come, Simon bets) people are launching themselves into space, and with each successful mission back the cultural fear becomes less and less. The empty and uncharted settling down into familiarity. It makes Simon want to destroy a spaceship so thoroughly that the incident could only be blamed on 'unknowable horrors from beyond the stars.' Lovecraft occasionally had some good ideas.

"London's always been a bit like that. I don't like it much either." Simon's attention wanders out the airplane window, and for a minute, he quietly observes the first hints of sunset colouring the horizon. "You should get yourself some of these," and taps his pair of headphones. "Then at least you don't have to hear them or have them talk to you. They do make CDs of just ocean or nature sounds."

“Hm, maybe.” Peter says it dismissively—would much rather hear the ocean and all of the sounds that came with it in person. “It’s a _device_ to _manage,_ can't say I would take to it.” And that's the end of that for him, not really wanting to speak any further. Besides, he has a _lot_ to think about now between Bouchard and also what will no doubt be a torturous week on-shore with his uncle. Apparently he is to be introduced to more of the family business beyond the light smuggling he is forced to partake in for the freedom of being able to travel the world in his ship. 

The rest of the flight is… blessedly uneventful besides Nathaniel waking up and stumbling for the bathroom. When they finally land in the evening, Peter thanks Simon for his hospitality as any friend and business conspirator should. Then he is off back to Moorland House in a private car with his uncle, thinking about Wright getting his eyes gouged out and how attractive Bouchard had looked covered in blood.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Footnotes:**  
>  1 Mephedrone is one variety of bath salts. That name didn’t start being used until around 2010, but mephedrone has been around since the late 1920’s. [return to text]
> 
> what up it's jen, you can find me on tumblr @jennyloggins, and on twitter at both @somegarbageisok on main and @slimejen for tma/video game posting.
> 
> Leto can be found on tumblr @auto-didact (general) and @divorcecravat (TMA).
> 
> Many thanks for TimonTomato for help with the editing!
> 
>  **Content warnings:**  
>  Mentions of dangerously intense BDSM, drug use, eye horror, and torture. [return to top]


	3. Gimlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone call, an offering, and a business lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click to view content warnings.

#### 1997.

* * *

Every time that Jonah Magnus has taken on a new identity, the adjustment period has been lengthy. To avoid suspicion from a staff both predisposed to an interest in conspiracy theories and the occult as well as subjected to the low-level ambient paranoia that came from their workplace being a place of power for the Eye, Jonah tried to keep in line with his new identity's habits as closely as possible at the outset. Week by week he'd make changes to his situation, synthesizing his preferred lifestyle with this new one. Elias had moved flats and redecorated his new office. He'd kept the cat. (Named "Piper" after a statement Elias had read from 1922. The temperamental ginger tabby has only recently started warming up to the new person in her owner's old body. Elias doesn't think she's all bad, although he does grumble about having to clean the fur off his clothing.)

Work life has settled back into a comfortable rhythm. Elias balanced the front-facing Institute business with the _other_ Institute business, switching back and forth between the two with a minimum of effort. Part of the Institute business more generally was keeping tabs on what sorts of things his acquaintances were doing. To the best of his knowledge (and he couldn't be bothered to delve too deeply into it), Captain Peter Lukas was off running the transatlantic shipping routes. Elias hadn't contacted him since the Fairchild wedding since he hadn't had a reason to. Today he does, and out of consideration for time zones, he makes calling him up the last thing he has scheduled to do in the business day. Elias is expecting to go straight to voicemail (as was nearly always the case), but he's pleasantly surprised to hear the call connect. "Hello, Captain Lukas. This is Elias Bouchard. Are you available to take a short call right now?"

Peter had dropped into port at Santa Marta in Colombia about two days prior. As is customary, there is a short period of time for his crew to go out and explore the city for a little under a week while the ship is inspected and refuelled, and the cargo goes through inspection. It had been a blissful journey from England besides stopping at port Dakar in Senegal along the way for a partial delivery for _far_ too long due to the weather. The open ocean on the tail end of hurricane season was positively tumultuous, soothing in its anger and causing so much _fear._ Not the sort he indulged in, but he could appreciate why Simon fed off the fear of men in the open, uncaring, ravaging ocean. It is quite humbling and very isolating to spend so much time out there, especially with the rocking and groaning of steel that may at any point break apart in an instant under the wrong conditions and when luck has run out. The fantasies of sailors fearing the ship sinking, washing up alone on some deserted sandbar of an island and dying of exposure? A low-level hum of delicious anxiety that keeps Peter feeling positively _chuffed._

On his second day, the city has already lost any charm it may have had by being too loud, too busy. He had seen what little he’d had to, now spending time in the hotel bar, repelling people away by intent alone to be left in peace and solitude. It is warm here in the tropics, though cool enough to not be overbearing since in this hemisphere it is still technically winter. He was drinking whiskey again, but when the bartender wanders back over to him, this time, he orders gin. A perfect drink for the middle of the afternoon, though, he loathes to admit that his favourite liquor reminds him of _anyone_ now.

He thought of Elias Bouchard plenty, on lonesome nights remembering their romp and pleasuring himself to the memories. An interesting man for sure, now that he had let the distaste germinate instead into something else that he would not put a name to. Curiosity and attraction are two good adjacent words, perhaps, but he would rather not dwell.

When his cellular phone rings, Peter is _genuinely_ startled by the standard ringtone. It is a clunky thing, horrid in its own right for being an avenue to be _contacted,_ but his uncle demanded that it be present in case of emergencies. Unfortunate that Peter is not immune to such, and that the emergence of such technology would no doubt lead to being _sought out._

By Elias Bouchard, he finds out a moment later when he answers. _Curious._ “Bouchard? I would ask how you got my number, but I am afraid I already know the answer. Please keep it brief, I’m quite busy.” He raises his glass in toast though, whether or not Elias can _see_ it.

Elias _could,_ but he doesn't. He feels that Peter deserves a certain measure of privacy after what had happened the last time he'd spied on him. No, he is going to keep this polite, since he does have a request to make. "Understood. I've been trying to get in contact with Mikaele Salesa, but the number we have for him on file is no longer in service. You wouldn't happen to have his new one, would you?"

Peter laughs obnoxiously, sitting up straighter as he starts patting his coat to try and find his address book. "You have dozens of contacts Mr. Bouchard, and you chose _me_ to call for that bastard? How lucky for you, I saw him last in Dakar about six weeks ago. He did give me his number, but why should I give it to you?" He does find the book, though, he doesn't open it _yet._

Elias, viscerally, _remembers_ that laugh. The last time Peter had mocked him like that, he'd been on his knees in his hotel room. And here Elias hoped that he was going to be able to get through this conversation without getting distracted. He swallows. "Because I have information to offer in trade. Something you in particular may find interesting. The number, please."

Peter is just hovering on the edge of being drunk, ready to either go back up to his room and pass out for an extended siesta or go find someone to take out his building sexual frustration on. It had been simmering for weeks after hearing about Jonah's entertainment sprees, remembering bedding Elias and wanting to get off again in someone. This phone call, as much as he hates the concept, is somewhat of an outlet, not that he will do anything _too_ untoward while talking on the phone. "Ah-ah, I doubt that greatly, Elias. Nathaniel handles these things, I am but the ferryman across the Atlantic River Styx. Tell me first, and I _might_ give you the number."

Elias is trying his best to make a scowl audible over the phone. He doesn't know whether he wants to _command_ him or call him a tease more. In the end, he simply pulls his notes towards himself so he can accurately relay the details. " _Fine._ You may want to get a pen." Elias gives him a beat to do so and tries to sand the edge off his irritation by having a bit of water.

"A short while ago, a statement was mailed to us by a current inmate at HMP Elmley. Apparently, one of Leitner's books made its way into the prison library and into this person's hands. A foreign phrasebook, in this case. The statement describes his new talent for language comprehension happening concurrently with the development of prosopagnosia. Face blindness. I don't doubt the veracity of the first part—the statement was written in sixteen different languages with no errors. As for the second, it's very difficult to maintain connections with people when you can't remember their faces, isn't it?" It was certainly the most unique statement the Archives had received in a while. Even Elias hadn't been able to make heads or tails of it until Gertrude had recorded an English-language version.

"The inmate's name is Jurrien Zendman," and Elias spells it. "He's due to be released in five weeks. I thought that this would be of particular interest to you because he used to work on Mr. Salesa's crew prior to his arrest. If not a prospective employee, I believe he could make an interesting offering. We're planning on keeping tabs on his whereabouts just in case."

For a moment, Peter thinks this is a joke when he talks about that Leitner fellow and one of his stupid, dangerous books. Even he had seen someone go mad once under the power of one, but he supposed that is what his cousin deserved for touching things that did not belong to her. Still, a book that causes face blindness at the expense of learning languages—he thinks the joke is buried in there, under the guise of Peter so desperately wishing to forget people exist in a recognizable way to him. 

But a man so thoroughly entrenched in his own thirst for Knowledge who would surely be losing his grip on reality the more alienated he becomes? That is no potential employee, that is a man to be sacrificed to his god; any person could learn a language, and people who speak something you need can always be bought.

“That is… rather charitable if you, actually, Elias. Feeling in good spirits today to tell me of someone who will surely need a chauffeur?” He chuckles now, dark and quiet as he looks down at his book and flips back from the note pad portion to the S section. And then to the second page, because he had allocated _three_ sections for his numbers and they had gone full up within just as many years. Far too many people with the initial S. “His number is, country code 27, area code 33 for Pietermaritzburg, 420-6969. A South African phone number, this time. Was that all you wanted, Elias?”

"What, to Hades? I should hope not. But I'll keep you in mind if I have anything a bit more mundane." Oh, Elias does _not_ like how friendly that tone is when it comes back to his ears. It's fit to scare a Lukas right off. Elias focuses on jotting down the number as it comes. "Yes, thank you." That sounds calmer; more distant. Better. "Safe travels."

Scowling vaguely at himself for feeling so _cheerful,_ he lets it get to his voice as he says, "And lose my number, Bouchard." He is the first to hang up, grunting after the second try to hit the button and finally getting it on the third. He can't help immediately thinking about how even after the man had caught him doing something _quite_ nasty, _he_ is initiating contact. 

Salesa is a fence that merely happens to deal in artefacts. Some dangerous, yes. Well, most, but there were more likely people out there who have his number, surely. There was no reason for Peter to be called first unless he was somehow still intrigued by him.

With the phone back in its place, Elias breathes out a relieved sigh he didn't know he was holding. Peter Lukas. What a _frustrating_ man.

Peter would sooner lose the phone than Elias would lose the number. His address book is meant only as a reference to confirm that he was remembering his clients' numbers correctly. It's indecipherable to nearly anyone but him, because being caught with that kind of thing could be disastrously implicating. Converting the phone number into words and the name into numbers is an almost meditative practice for Elias. He used to do it with prices and house numbers, back when he was younger. The pen scratches against the notepad and he's thankful that this requires too much of his attention to think on other things. When it's time he gets his address book out and copies "050: knock, mummy, ruin, sash, bishop" onto a new line. The sticky note that serves as a page marker has its own string of nonsense words and the numbers " ~~7912 570:~~ 914 570:"1 written down. He closes the book.

Elias thinks he'll go out tonight. Head up to Soho and find his way to someplace nice like Comptons2 to keep himself distracted. He's not sure if the original Elias' nightlife is a thing he's going to keep pursuing in the long term, but it's good to get out once in a while.

Peter… Peter has planning to do, involving one Jurrien Zendman. A man who sounds like he will make the most efficient employee, and then let him descend into madness via loneliness. He would make an excellent offering after a bit more marinating in his own misfortune. A very good tip from Elias indeed, and it again makes him feel for the weeks it takes to set everything up. His ship would be back in port just before Jurrien was released, and when the lad needed some work? Peter would offer.

Perhaps as a translator? Going into other countries and having a man be able to translate what one person says to another. Would everyone start to look the same? Sound the same? Would he despair about not knowing who his friends are? Would he have a wife that he can no longer distinguish from anyone else? Children? Would he think people are lying to him about who they are? Acute brain rot bringing forth all of the feelings of hopelessness that Peter could feed off of and be full for _months._ Just thinking about it gives him a pleased chill up his spine. 

Elias knew he would be sending that man to his banishment from this realm and ultimate death by telling Peter. It is intriguing at worst and makes him feel smugly gratified at best. He finishes up his gin and heads back to his room to plan some more, making calls back home to his family so there can be preparations made. Also for other business of course—this is just a fun little side project to appease his god, after all.  
  


* * *

  
All in all, Peter had toyed with Jurrien for four weeks. Four _blissful_ weeks of making sure his crew all but ignored the man. Six weeks of him slowly going insane as people homogenized into one, unable to recognize a single face or voice until Peter had found him on deck one night, ready to end it all. Instead of him jumping overboard, Peter had sweetly asked him to tell him how he felt, and Jurrien had gone into full detail of what happened, how _lonely_ he was, how nobody could even understand what it was like to not be able to recognize anyone. Faces were now scrambled beyond recognition, and now voices too made him feel so painfully _isolated._ Nothing and nobody could help.

Peter had devoured the tale, had _really_ felt it in his bones, just how lost this man had become. How _alienated_ he now was because of a tattered book he found at the back of the prison library. Peter had assured him he could help, and he couldn't resist doing it right then and there, swallowing him up whole into the Lonely, feeling exhilarated by appeasing his god. Something he may have to thank Elias for, loath as he was to consider it. He had said something about keeping tabs on the man, but what good was a translator who didn't embrace the side effect of not being able to remember a face? 

Peter would jump at the chance, perhaps. To not have to recognize people would make his existence much more peaceful. He would not have to dwell on certain… things so much. And maybe he would not have dreams of _other_ things either.

Regardless, Peter finds himself back in port to his uncle waiting for him _quite_ impatiently at the administrative office at the docks. The moment he walks in, Nathaniel has a neutral look on his face that has just that _touch_ of a sour note underneath that makes Peter want to turn and leave. They are alone, of course, his uncle behind his desk surrounded by paperwork looking quite comical with his old man reading glasses on.

“We have a problem, Peter.”

“Again?” He asks it with a note of amusement, but Nathaniel isn't finding it quite so funny, of course. “With what now? This last run went off without a hitch.” _And_ with a succulent sacrifice.

“Livingston-Bell Atlantic are trying to cut into our section of the import car shipping business. Someone tipped them off to the auction in Vigo, Spain, and they undercut our price enough that when Cecil Crawford tried to unload, he was told his services were no longer required. And now we have to waste time rerouting that elsewhere and hope we aren't stiffed.” 

It’s the most he's heard the man speak in the past year all at once, but it really _is_ a dire situation. Once a rival got their foot in the door like that, it would be tough to cut that foot off in time to not have it damage their revenue avenues. 

“And you’re sure it was LBA?”

“The ship was right across from Cecil’s, according to him,” comes the distracted reply until one more thing gets signed and Nathaniel puts his pen down. “So now we have to figure out what to do about it.”

“Besides very obviously make the company heads disappear, I assume.”

“Unfortunately, we can't get away with that one these days,” he says with a sigh as he takes his glasses off. “But I have placed a call to the Institute for the shipping manifestos and cargo lists for the next six months for them, and that information should be ready tomorrow. You will go pick it up with me.”

“Must I?” Peter says it automatically, grimacing at the mere thought of having to not only enter London proper, but also the _last_ place he would like to go right now. 

“Yes, you _must,_ ” and Peter tunes out the bit about taking more responsibility for the family, a one-sentence speech he's heard close to a dozen times already. “We leave tomorrow morning at nine, make sure you are awake and ready.”

“Nine it is.” Unfortunately.

The details of how the Watcher operates are known to a blessed few. Their methods and identity are as much a mystery inside the Magnus Institute as outside of it. The staff certainly do have their fun trading theories about the conspiracy they find themselves working in and Elias is equally as entertained to overhear them.

Is the Watcher an elaborate hoax? Is the Watcher inhuman? Is the Watcher a council? Are there a bunch of telepathic monsters or angels or demons or aliens chained up in a hidden basement? Can the Watcher talk to spirits? Can the Watcher talk to God? Was the Watcher James Wright, and the new boss is trying to keep their absence a secret? Is the Watcher Gertrude Robinson? How does Director Bouchard contact the Watcher, if at all? Does he send e-mails? Does he have a summoning circle under the rug in his office? 

Office gossip aside, here is how things generally work for the straightforward requests that the Institute receives. (Although this one had come in from Nathaniel Lukas, it really was just business. Nothing esoteric about it.)

Director Bouchard would put out an urgent request to the Head of Research to find out the names of any company staff not listed in the original request, with special priority on personal assistants, administrative staff, and secretaries. No personal information required—names were enough. With that, Elias would spend some time briefly spying upon each person in turn to discover who was presently in the office and who was most likely to have access to the type of intelligence that the client had requested. Then Director Bouchard would ask somebody in Research to call up one of the likely suspects and ask a handful of questions. Elias didn't need them answered. He just needed the relevant documents to be in his View while the phone call was happening. His memory, while remarkably keen, was still fallible, and so he'd type up his observations in shorthand as they came to him live. (The density of detail in his automatic writing had exploded exponentially once he got the knack for using a keyboard. He'd attempted typewriters once or twice, but having to miss precious seconds of whatever he was Watching to manually unstick the type bars simply wasn't worth it.) From there, Elias would repeat the process with other individuals until he was satisfied he'd learned everything the client wanted. Then he'd spend some time composing his notes into an actual report, have it printed and sent, and that was that.

When he had the time, Elias also liked to do a bit of fact-checking. He would take a sheet of information about who they were supposed to be impersonating and what they were supposed to find out to one of the couple of people in Research specifically hired for their acting background, wait a couple of minutes for them to get into character, and then Watch the proceedings from the comfort of his office.

Elias didn't usually need to make edits but this time he does. It's not entirely surprising given the amount of information there, but he still has ample time to get the new version printed in triplicate and waiting on his desk before his eleven o'clock appointment with Mr. Lukas rolls around.

Nathaniel is a full ten minutes early and he is not alone. Elias Knows both of these facts as soon as he crosses the threshold. He fixes his suit and his hair by touch as he takes a glance at who else is here. Given the subject matter of the request made, Elias had entertained the thought yesterday that Peter Lukas would be involved with this. This _must_ be important, Elias thinks, if it got him off his boat and into unfamiliar territory.

Before either of the guests can reach the reception desk, Rosie picks up the phone and listens to Director Bouchard's request that she please ask Captain Lukas how he takes his tea or coffee when he arrives. Uncanny, his timing. Mr. Wright had been the same way.

“Black coffee,” Nathaniel says in an annoyed tone to the rather innocent question of how they took their coffee or tea.

Peter, though, is surprisingly more personable when he has to be, and he says, “I take my tea with a little bit of sugar.” 

If he's honest, he's taking in the impressive scope of the Institute building itself. It would be intimidating in its own right if not for Peter knowing Elias Bouchard, but it's kind of hard to have that same sense of wonder when he's had his dick in the man’s mouth. The building is large, seemingly much too large for an organization like this, but it is clear that the space is not idle with employees bustling around in various stages of what _ever_ they do here.

“Oh, wonderful, I will have those brought up right away. Do you need directions to Director Bouchard’s office?” The receptionist asks them in the same pleasant tone. 

“No, we can find our way,” Peter says, walking after his uncle who has already started walking off. He must know where he is going, because after a flight and a half of stairs and a couple of easy to miss turns, they are standing in front of the door with the embossed placard reading ‘Elias Bouchard’ on the outside. They stand there for a moment too long before Nathaniel reaches out to knock, waiting for the “come in.”

Knowing that Nathaniel has very little tolerance for power plays from his various interactions with him over the years, Elias gives him the go-ahead to enter right away.

The rest of the Institute's decor is steeped in dry academia and the same could be said of James Wright's old office. Redecorating his work environment was fundamentally important to getting into character as Elias Bouchard, and that had been one his first tasks following his promotion. The curio cabinets and most of the bookshelves were removed to show off the freshly painted Russian green walls. The weighty wooden desk and chairs stayed, as did the settee where James had been enucleated. Voluminous and gauzy curtains were hung to frame the room's broad windows and soften the eastern sunlight. Being in it feels much more spacious and a good deal more inviting. No creepy artwork hanging up. No potentially cursed artefacts on display. (Those things would eventually find their way back in, once Jonah gets used to wearing this new skin. The man has an aesthetic.)

"Good morning to the both of you," Elias says, all practiced decorum. To Peter, he gives the slightest of nods. "And Captain Lukas, how nice to meet you again." Elias fills the space where shaking hands across the desk would be the customary thing to do by sliding the unmarked manila envelope across it, more towards Nathaniel. "I'll give you a moment to look these over—there's more than one copy. Please bear in mind that some of this information is subject to change. If any of these shipments are of particular interest, I'd recommend contacting the Institute closer in advance so that it may be verified or updated."

“Director Bouchard,” Peter says, tipping his head without taking his hat off. He keeps his jacket on for good measure too, knowing that this will not be a lengthy visit. 

Peter is immediately glad for two things. One, that Bouchard has an _excellent_ poker face and can be discreet when need be, and two, he is not wasting any time by getting right into it. If Peter has little patience, his uncle has exponentially less for anything other than people being straightforward. Knowing now that Bouchard is Wright, it is definitely no accident that he knows his uncle’s disposition about business. 

…But for someone who's had his semen on his face, Elias is looking _quite_ at ease right now sitting behind his desk all proper. Austere is the only word that comes to mind as he takes in the crisp suit with matching waistcoat. Framed by the sun coming in through the thin curtains, sitting in a chair that is just the right size to make him look intimidating, Peter wonders what his employees must think of him. 

Getting nudged by his uncle breaks him out of his thoughts, and they both take seats at the chairs in front of Bouchard’s desk. “Peter, what do you make of these?” Nathaniel hands him one of the copies of the manifests and schedules.

Taking a moment to look them over and flipping the stapled pages, it takes him a bit of reading before finding what he's looking for. “April 17th departure, that's the one. They're not being terribly careful about their cargo. This one lists farm equipment headed for Pointe-Noir on the coast of Republic of the Congo. The ship they're using is a K class—Regina Maersk. Brand new liner, capacity of 6400 TEU.3 Now _that_ is a ship that can carry a _lot_ of containers,” Peter says more to himself than anyone, rambling about specifications knowing it’s over Nathaniel’s head, and probably Bouchard’s for now.

“The Tundra herself has a TEU of 4600, for comparison. And I know that this,” he says, pointing to the cargo list and looking at his uncle, “All of this could fit on my ship with a bit of room to spare. They’re either under-loading the ship, or there’s the smuggling operation.”

“Huh,” Nathaniel says as he flips to that page to look along, listening intently until he gets the plot. “That's it then, but what to do about it?”

“I am _sure_ we will figure it out,” Peter says, flipping to the next page to read the crew list and the profiles on them. This is… impressively detailed, and though it is his first time he is a part of utilizing the Institute, it seems par the course as far as expectations go.

Throughout the talk, Elias is following along as well on his computer, scrolling through the less-polished dataset to see if there's anything additional worth mentioning. Peter's professional confidence speaks to more hands-on experience in the field than Elias tends to expect from other people of similar financial backgrounds. It's one thing to say that you captain a ship and quite another to actively engage with the required responsibilities.

But that is a Lukas trait, isn't it. _Self-sufficiency._

The impulse is there to direct his questions at Peter, who clearly has the greater insight about the situation at hand, but Nathaniel had been his point of contact about this assignment and hadn't mentioned his nephew at all in their original correspondence. Elias settles on speaking to both, splitting his glances and attention between the two. "I feel it's worth saying that 'farm equipment' as a cargo type only appears the once in the six-month timeframe, and that it does not appear at all in the additional information we were able to gather that falls outside of that range." In case they would like to use any of the pens or highlighters, Elias moves his desk organizer around to the other side of the computer within their reach.

Being that it occasionally puts his associates on edge to be discussing sensitive topics with his secretary in the room, Elias pauses to let Rosie drop off the tea tray and take away Elias' old mug. She's even brought a plate of shortbread, the _dear._ "You're a godsend, thank you," he tells her, and puts a bit of extra graciousness in it for the specific purpose of making Nathaniel squirm.

With one of the two black coffees in his hands, Elias picks up where he left off. "May I ask if you have a general idea about your next course of action? The Institute would be pleased to offer any further assistance."

Peter does take a highlighter, uncapping it with his teeth so he can hastily circle the page number in the packet to find it later, then re-capping it as he thinks. He wholly ignores Elias laying on the thanks to the same woman from downstairs, though his uncle’s discomfort is… actually quite funny. He doesn't laugh, but he picks up his own cup and takes a sip. Just sweet enough without going overboard, just how he likes it. 

Nathaniel speaks up first, “I’d want that liner at the bottom of the ocean, but that would just be a _waste._ ”

Peter instead circles back to Elias’ point. “The ‘farm equipment’ description is general enough to leave the specific types a mystery. That type of machinery _is_ expensive and fetches a higher price than a black market import car. They would have to be fixing the numbers, and you don't have to be too smart to figure out _these_ look fixed, so I think it’s our best bet, uncle.”

Then to Elias, he says, “A lesson needs to be taught not to steal business ventures from other companies. This company beat our own boat by three days and sold their cargo to the fence. Our man got into port and was laughed out of it, and we had to ship ours elsewhere at a loss to our profit margin.”

“I still say it should be sunk,” Nathaniel says, finally picking up his offered drink.

“I would rather it be an _example,_ not something that can be blamed on a catastrophic engine failure or something that would logically breach the hull.” For a moment, Peter wonders about the logistics of getting on board. A passing thought, watching Elias sip at his coffee instead. Being in the same room as Elias while his uncle is with him is keeping Peter’s rude comments in check, but he thinks about Elias on his knees, looking up at him with his cock in his mouth. Something he has thought about _quite_ often.

Elias offers a diplomatically sympathetic wince upon hearing the nature of the slight. He can't really empathize, but he does understand the need for retaliation.

"So going after the ship then, and not the employees? All right." By his tone, Elias makes it clear that he isn't passing judgement on this tactic and is really only looking for confirmation. Removing influential people from office or menacing them in such a way that there would be no further problems is the Institute's specialty. People are easy to deal with. Things are harder.

Elias works through his thought process aloud for the benefit of his associates. "'An example' can mean a great many things, Mr. Lukas. For one, how important is the safety of the cargo? We can absolutely give you a better idea of its market value with a bit of time to do the research. The value of the craft itself seems more your department than mine, although the legal troubles with transferring ownership may not be worth it, I'd imagine." 

He reclines in his chair, just a little, sipping his coffee and idly staring at the intersection of wall and ceiling. The crown moulding stares back. "Are you thinking of staging a hijacking? Or a showy sort of sabotage? Because again, if it's people on the inside you need, we can certainly help that along."

“I don't care how it is done, just that it is done quietly,” Nathaniel says suddenly, putting down his packet of information along with his barely touched drink. “Peter, I will leave the particulars to you, and you will meet with me in a week. Director Bouchard, this has been _quite_ informative.” The closest to a thanks that he will get. 

He watches his uncle stand up to leave, and asks, “Are you sure about that?”

“You _will,_ ” comes the clipped reply. For the family, of course. It is always for the family, and failure is not an option, so it will be done. Peter would rather sail nonstop to Antarctica and back six times than have to _plot._ It has never been his strong suit, preferring the company of emptiness. 

“I have other errands to run, so I will take my leave. Director Bouchard, you may add the appropriate amount to the budget for next quarter.” The unspoken ‘don't question me’ comes in the form of his uncle’s tired gaze before he nods at Elias and heads for the door. 

Once it closes again, Peter takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. Under no circumstances did he wish to be left alone with Bouchard today, but at the very least, he allows himself to relax his shoulders. “Christ, alright, as you were saying, I think a sabotage would work. Simple engine or electronic failure.”

Elias makes sure to get his appropriate goodbyes in before Nathaniel properly departs. He thinks that must be a new record for a conversation length.

At Peter's signs of relief, he chuckles to himself because he's certainly been in his spot before. Can't imagine being _related_ to the man and having to deal with all of that on a regular basis. "Is he always like this?" Elias asks, as if he doesn't _know._

“ _Extremely_ charming man, I think my mother once made an offhand comment about him being loquacious,” it was the closest thing to a joke he had ever heard out of her mouth, young as he was at the time. “Positively dreadful to be in a room with when there is anything important to be discussed. I am truly surprised he stayed so long.”

Rolling his shoulders, his neck pops quietly, and he picks up his drink again to have something to do, realizing they are quite alone now and that he’s been quietly thinking some dirty thoughts about his host. Still… “Should we continue on here, or can I interest you in lunch?”

To get the both of them conversationally comfortable and receptive to ideas, Elias had just been about to break out the whiskey. He thinks the lunch idea a preferable one when he hears it, especially if it's going to be on the Lukases' dime. It's difficult to predict how long a planning session is going to last, anyway. May as well do it over food.

"I think you could," Elias says, and starts to go through the steps of shutting down his computer. "Do have at least one of the biscuits before we leave. They really are quite good." As he's gathering up his things and slipping another copy of the report into his briefcase, Elias takes the chance to snack on one. Rosie really is an excellent cook. He's never been able to get the hang of it.

Shrugging his shoulders, he keeps his comment about spoiling his appetite, because truly, what would one biscuit hurt? They do look good, so he picks one up and takes a bite; the snap and crumble of the buttery little thing _is_ quite nice. Finishing it and then downing the rest of his cooling tea, he says, “Even I must admit that the hospitality from your secretary has been good. Compliments to her baking.”

Standing up, he readjusts his coat around him as he waits for Elias to come around the desk. He goes for the door first so that Elias can close and lock it behind him once they’re in the hallway. It is silent and empty as can be all the way up at this office, blessedly. “I rather hate London, so I’m afraid I have no idea where to go and no preference for what to eat. Would you mind choosing, Director Bouchard?”

"Not at all." Elias leads the way down the stairs and out of the building. He's made the journey enough times over the decades to be able to do it blind with none the wiser—which is indeed what he's doing as his vision jumps between some of his usual haunts to see which is the least busy at this time of day. Close by and quiet are more important to him than making any kind of grand impression. Peter had his own impressions already, and some of those were quite informal indeed.

They walk to someplace out of the way and reservation-only. Securing a table comes easily to someone with the Head of the Magnus Institute's particular connections. There's not much of a view, but honestly that's fine. Better for keeping them on-task. Elias readily handles the matter of getting their orders placed (chef's recommendations for the both of them, since he gets the feeling that Peter is accustomed to having other people choose on his behalf) and whatever Peter would like to drink. Elias does end up getting that whiskey.

"So we've got an interesting hypothetical in front of us today, don't we? What are you thinking, Mr. Lukas? When the papers are reporting on what happened out at sea, what is it that they're going to be saying?" Elias, for one, is curious to see if Peter's knack for _fun_ ideas can be applied to places outside the bedroom.

He follows Elias quietly, trailing behind him and watching him navigate the streets that are so wholly unfamiliar to himself. He does think about the situation at hand as well, and possible solutions to it while he is led to the restaurant of choice. It is not too far, and he is pleased to know that getting a table is not an issue for Elias either. Peter ends up ordering a Gimlet, on a bit of a gin kick again since his Obituary and in the mood for something especially _sharp._

“The papers could report any number of things. A missing ship is the dullest option, I think, like I said earlier. It could be blamed on a hull breach, or something of that sort. _No,_ it has to be a mystery. I was thinking of having them all starve to death if the systems fail and all communication is cut. No backups, no power, let them all turn on one another as they drift in the ocean. But it is too slow, leaves too much time for someone to find them, and does not put across my intended meaning.”

Taking a breath, Peter sips at his drink, just as sour and strong as he was hoping for. Perfect. “Which leads me to making a mass sacrifice to my patron. Still trying to work out the logistics on that one, it would have to be before the ship left Portsmouth.” It would certainly be a feat.

It is so, so very nice to listen to a man without an ounce of human empathy left in him talk about committing such atrocities. Practically musical, hearing it live instead of in recorded statements. Elias hums in approval. He looks pleased to a degree that's bordering on inappropriate for even the most avid and twisted of horror fans.

"Oh, you don't have to make them starve to death to get your point across. You just have to tamper with the water supply. Similar effect, much shorter timeline." Outside of the office, Elias feels more comfortable in offering aid to one of his associates' awful and appalling plans. Fewer people around to overhear and pass that along to someone who could become an unaccounted-for variable somewhere down the line. "I'd avoid using the words 'mass sacrifice' in particular. Wouldn't want people thinking you're getting into ritual territory. If I were you, I'd be very careful about which people you get involved in your planning."

The look Elias gives him is almost… thrilling. Having someone pay attention to him without cringing at the callous comments that flow from his mouth is as pleasant as the drink he takes another sip of. Especially someone like Elias that he made a proper mess of, though, this is not the time for that. 

Thinking about what Elias said, Peter takes another long breath and exhales slow. “You’re right though that I’m to avoid saying that, not quite ready for one of those now anyway. But the good news is I work quite nearly alone on these sorts of things. Hadn't thought about the water supply, but that _is_ genius. Contaminate the water stores, some of the crew die, some might live. Some _have_ to disappear though. Delirious and afraid from realizing too late that they have been ingesting toxic water, the fog rolls in, ah…” Chin resting on his palm and elbow on the table, Peter remembers his last _true_ crew roulette, how the lifeboat had dropped, the whistle had been blown, and Peter spent hours surrounding his sacrifice. Different from Jurrien, that one had been a jeering, mean-spirited chase until Peter tossed him into the Lonely quite roughly.

"There are fun things you could do with low-dosage drugs, if that's something you're interested in experimenting with. Or poisons too, I'd imagine, but there's precious little information to be found about the subjective experience when people don't go about doing _those_ recreationally." More things to research in the coming days, if only to satisfy Elias' curiosity. He'd done his personal share of exploring which sorts of things _eased_ fear, but it was another task entirely to try and exacerbate it.

The look of Peter daydreaming is... precious, to be honest. Elias doesn't want to disturb it. He carefully leans in closer so as not to disturb anything on the table and speaks as if he's guiding a meditation. "What's it like, Peter? Making your offerings. I've always wondered." Pity that the Archives don't have a clear description of what happens aboard the Tundra yet. All Elias has to go on is inference.

Peter had never even _considered_ drugs, but now that it has been mentioned, a boat full of violently tripping men might be even _better._ His chance to say so moves on, instead being asked by Elias how he operates. A much more fun subject _indeed,_ and he lets a shameless grin cross his face. “Oh, Elias, it is _divine,_ ” he says with a hint of breathlessness behind it. 

“I almost wanted to mark you, sitting alone at the reception without a single person noticing you. I start there, whoever has the energy of being on the fringes of a good time. Someone who knows they are the Other.” Taking another sip of his drink, he leans on his elbows, pressed to the edge of the table but leaving his hands free for emphasis. “Once someone starts to feel left out, that is when I start to exert the influence of my patron. It feels _exquisite,_ to single out someone, to be the driving force behind the rest of the room remembering an errand to attend to or needing to leave the room for something. 

“You, I know now I can't sweep you off your feet into the seas of despair in the same sense, would have been stupid of me to even try. But for someone who has no idea, no _control,_ I influence their every negative thought, every hopeless and horrible thought that drags the fear from their bones. To _really_ break someone down, to make them cry and beg and plead until they go cold and numb. _That_ is when they are at their ripest.

“And then I _snatch_ them. I tear them from this world and their irrelevant problems, from all of their joy and success, and I cast them into my patron’s realm.” Leaning back again, he shrugs, less intensely pronounced on the enunciation of his next words as he continues, “Other times, I cast them in and let my patron do all of the work of terrifying them. In the end, both of us are fed and happy no matter who terrifies them out of their skin.”

Elias is a wary man, and he does not allow himself to be swept away by Peter's _ghastly_ description in any sense except the metaphorical. In his experience, the Eye has a very 'speak of the devil and he shall appear' kind of demeanor. Its attention could be summoned, much like hearing one's name said across the room at a party. The slow creep of the Lonely could operate similarly, as far as he knows. So Elias stays attentive towards his emotional state, to the other presences in the room, and to the circulation in his hands and wrists where his suit-sleeves do not cover.

Peter could have been a preacher, in another life. Hearing him speak with such _reverence_ in him, formed into such an awesome narrative makes Elias believe that he'd be terribly good at it. He's moved. But not too moved to even _begin_ to romanticize anything about being the target of the Lonely's influence. It's a monstrous thing and Peter Lukas is a monstrous servant who _loves_ it so.

At that wedding reception, Elias made himself into a pretty target and felt the isolating chill beat back the oppressive heat of the evening. It hadn't been the first time that he'd knowingly accepted that. Wanting to mark a man who had already been marked times over—who had suffused himself in it wholly, body and soul—it was doubly precious of Peter.

Elias doesn't tell him that. Men do like to believe that they're somebody's first.

"It all sounds very melancholy and Romantic," Elias tells him with a subtle smile. "In the literary sense. Thank you. I'll have to share my own perspective on a different day."

Peter relaxes more again, having not realized that talking _about_ it would also make the weight of his patron flare up with it. Not completely intentionally, but the excitement of singling someone out as oblation? It is positively _holy._ “Can't say I haven't wondered how your patron works, but,” he cuts himself off with a quick shudder, “I can't help finding it so _creepy._ Watching _people?_ I can't think of a single thing I would enjoy less.”

Their food comes out then, Peter asks for another drink of the same, and when they are alone again he thinks back to his conversation with Simon. About how Elias could _surprise_ him. Face to face with the man again in a business context, he is still _very_ attractive. Granted, he thought of their brief affair _quite_ often, annoyingly enough, but such was the nature of man and the need to masturbate because of a stiff gust of wind.

"Watching people is what it _does,_ not what it _is._ There's a difference." Regrettably Elias has to pause while their meals are brought out, but that's fine. It gives him a chance to get his ideas into a more coherent order. He seconds that Gimlet request and quickly downs the remainder of his whiskey so the glass could be removed from the table. 

"I've always thought of the Eye as something of a mirror to yours. Hearing you describe how you influence a person's terrible thoughts sounds an _awful_ lot like what I do. The difference is in the tense—you cause suffering in the present, whereas I make people fixate on what _could_ happen in the future. And it's often the threat of social isolation that gets them so worried. Which is honestly shooting themselves in the foot, because that's how anxiety works, doesn't it. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy." It sounds all a bit scholastic the way it's being presented, but there is a hint of truthful conviction in there to give the impression that Elias may just have a lived understanding of what he's talking about.

“Hate to think I am part of something much more grand as being two sides of the same coin, but you have a point there,” he says as he picks up his fork. “I am there to clean up the mess of anxiety for those overwhelmed by it when I am around. Our patrons do seem closely twined together, along with that of Fairchild—speaking of, _apparently,_ he saw you leaving my hotel room.” Not quite acknowledging their tryst, but peppering that in there as a taunt. “When someone is scared of the vastness of the world when they are faced with being alone? _Delicious._ ” Punctuating it with taking a bite of his meal.

"Oh, _did_ he." Elias' expression turns sour. He's been working on the assumption that Peter isn't the sort of man to kiss and tell. But if known gossip _Simon_ had taken notice, doubtless half their circle was aware of it already. There was always going to be a chance of something like that happening, and he had been in a rather distracted state both times he had left. Elias is much more annoyed on principle than actually embarrassed. An invasion of privacy was fair play. Not knowing about it is the part that has him slicing down into his fish with altogether too much force. "And which time was this? Did he mention what I was wearing?"

Peter doesn't miss the _immediate_ annoyance, and it's _interesting._ So he's quick to anger when the matters are so personal, which is out of line with the cool and calm exterior Peter has briefly gotten to know. But it brings him an acute amount of joy to say, “Disheveled in a bathrobe, I’m afraid. I did my best to say nothing, that I found you quite boring—still do, no offence. He had quite a lot to say about your institute though, as well as _you._ ” 

He leaves that thought on a cliffhanger when their fresh drinks are brought, taking a sip instead.

That's definitely the worse of the two options, and it deepens Elias' scowl. He'd been a fool to think that his years-long streak of not having an erection and Simon in the same room would continue indefinitely. Pettily, he Looks in on the troublemaker in the hopes of catching him doing something terrible. Mr. Fairchild is doing absolutely nothing of the sort—simply dozing off in a train car while the world rushes by. In a way, that's even _more_ frustrating.

"Mr. Fairchild doesn't know when to mind his own business."

Elias tries to calm himself by thinking about more pleasant things. His office, still undisturbed. The park near the Institute where he'd sometimes spend his lunches or smoke breaks. He breathes. That's better.

Peter snorts at that, and says, “I know his whole _thing_ is living without boundaries, but every time I see him, all he does is step on mine on purpose. Just because _he_ has seen the world pass by for hundreds of years and has no respect for privacy doesn't mean I must partake in his gossip circle.” While Elias fumes, he silently starts eating, actually quite pleased that Elias ordered for him earlier. The fish is good, the company is fair, and the drinks are decent. It’s all he can ask for while being in this city. 

But business is business, and personal acquaintances and issues aside, Peter says, “I would like to know more about the water supply tampering, and I would like more information about what drugs may cause the crew to lose their minds. That seems like a _delightful_ time. Maybe make them drift across the ocean as the engine has unforeseen problems that can't be fixed correctly since everyone would be having a _terrible_ time of it. I don't want to hijack the cargo, but perhaps tipping off port security at Pointe-Noir so the entire cargo is inspected will be sufficient. I would _love_ to toss some people into the aether, but I just _can’t_ work out how…”

Elias notes that down, both mentally and on a fresh page of a little journal he fishes out of his briefcase. It's good of Peter to get them back on track. "You've also got to think about your own extraction plan," he adds. "If you're going to be cutting off the ship's communication, then that applies to you as well. Either you're going to need to time things out excellently, or have an alternate means of getting in touch.

"As for any, ah, _unexplained phenomena,_ that's going to be on _you,_ " Elias says, pointing towards Peter's chest with the butt of his pen. "Although much easier to do if you can stir up the appropriate amount of terror. I'd begin by riling up the crew shortly after you leave. In little ways. You've been on the ocean a while now. Surely you're good at knowing what kinds of things are good at making them anxious." Finally Elias takes a sip of the drink, finding it quite a bit more _tart_ than he expected. He doesn't know about that one.

“On _me,_ I see how it is,” he says, splaying a hand over his chest in mock shock. “You paint me as some sort of spooky ghost, and I am _not_ a spooky ghost.” He thinks for a beat on it all though, because Elias is right. However, one detail that had gone _incredibly_ far over his head was the implication of Peter being _there_ until right this moment. He had intended to send some other chump to do the work for him. “Oh, but I didn't even consider that I could be actually _there._ It would make sense, then, _yes_ I know _exactly_ what I could do from there.”

"You said that you work nearly alone on these sorts of things. Would you _really_ leave something as important as this in someone else's hands?" Elias thought that'd be a given, unless there were some other, younger Lukases running around eager to prove themselves.

For the last number of minutes, the tickle of attention on the back of Elias' neck has steadily been growing worse, and his mood similarly worse for it. He can tell the difference between his patron keeping him under observation and the mundane gaze of regular people. More than one of them at the table behind him is _fascinated_ with the conversation and with his tattoo. He wishes he could make it blink.

"No, you're going to go, because you want to see it through. And _Madam,_ " he hisses as he looks back over his shoulder, fully intending to flay her under his stare and words both. "If you do not mind your own business then I will _happily_ share where you were and what you were doing last Saturday with the rest of your table. We're _actors._ It's _fine._ " Elias looks away and his snarl melts into a satisfied smirk, drinking in the feeling of her blood running cold and the concern from the rest of her unnerved peers.

"Apologies," he says to Peter, friendlier than ever. "Can't stand rudeness. As I was saying, you're going to want to be there. Wouldn't want a meal like that to go to waste."

That is true, Peter would _not_ leave it to someone else. It’s not as if he has any heirs, to his family’s disappointment. His siblings unfortunately do not hold the same affinity for their god as he does, though he knows the family line will carry on through them. At least, he has no children he is aware of or _responsible_ for. 

His chain of thought is interrupted by Elias very suddenly _snapping._ Not hard, but enough for him to see and feel just how needle-like his attention could be if you are on the wrong end of it. He can see the woman go pale, and he hears the hushed whispering about that _rude_ man. If only they knew, but, they are just about finished here anyway, so Peter starts wrapping this up, fishing his wallet out and picking out what he assumes will be enough cash, placing it down on the table. 

“Indeed I would not.” He downs the rest of his drink and nods his head at Elias. “Be a dear and do a bit more research for me, and call me in a couple of days. I will be at my family’s home in the meantime looking over the information you have given me. Is there anything else to address for now?”

Elias, similarly, nods. It's going to be an intensive few days of work ahead. He'd have to see what research he'd be able to outsource without Gertrude getting wind of it. Maybe he'd feed her an interesting tip about something entirely unrelated to let him work in peace.

"There is. It's about your extraction plan." Elias sets the pen down to let Peter know that he has his full attention and folds his hands on the table. "I've committed myself to assisting you in this matter and I intend to continue doing so, despite none of this being in the initial agreement. This is intended as a personal favour to the Lukas household. In exchange for helping to ensure your safety and hopefully, your success, I would like something in return." Elias takes a calculated pause and a calculated sip of his too-acidic drink. "Events don't happen on this sort of scale very often, even if it's only going to affect twenty to thirty people. So I would like your permission to be its chronicler." It'd be a shame to let that kind of history be lost to the ages, Elias thinks. 

"I am told that having your vision borrowed by another is not the most _pleasant_ of sensations, but there are other ways of ensuring I have eyes at the scene. Even something as subtle as vandalizing surfaces whenever you grow bored. And, well. If I'm checking in and keeping a record of how things are progressing, then I'd imagine I'll be the first to know when you're finished and could use a lift out of there." It's a bold ask to have Peter put his trust in a person whose allegiances are uncertain and untested. Elias knows this. But he doubts Peter can come up with a better communication option on his own.

“Oh _Elias,_ you have already done me so many favours,” Peter says gleefully, thinking about Jurrien again, not even the sex. Well, he is also thinking about the sex, specifically because of how Elias is so proper looking right now with his request. It makes him want to get him back on his knees and ask again, though, that would be hard to do in a restaurant with a gaggle of women glaring at them without some sort of annoying consequences. But he sticks his elbows back on the table and bridges his fingers together, resting his chin in them, and leans forward just a bit with it. 

“You and your Eye, always so nosy, looking to get in on the action. I suppose if it means that much to you, I could find a way to arrange that. Instead, call it repayment for the tip you gave me when I was in South America. I owed you for that, and I don't like having debts over my head that need to be repaid. Do your job, and then I’ll let you watch me.”

Straightening back up, Peter coughs and ‘breaks character’ with, “And, end scene. We make quite a pair, I think the production is going to go off without a hitch this weekend.” Does no good to talk of supernatural murder in public, and the actor excuse Elias pulled out earlier was _perfect_ for prying ears. “I’ll be seeing you then, but I must take my leave, I am sure you understand.”

Elias has the frustratingly _cordial_ impulse to ask Peter out when he goes talking like that. It's the kind of thing that puts some particular ideas in his head about how he could demonstrate his _gratitude_ if he feels so strongly about it. But he doesn't, because he's a professional, and he's already borrowed enough of Peter's time today. They'll be speaking again soon. Perhaps then, if all went well.

Elias nods to him, as if giving him permission to get up and as if Peter actually _needs_ it. "Ah, before you do, I _was_ going to ask about that. Your new intern. Did that work out, or did he end up getting transferred abroad?" Jurrien had made it to the Tundra, he saw, but Elias hadn't paid much attention beyond that point.

On some level, Peter is glad for Elias’ confirmation that this conversation is nearly complete. And his response to the question of Jurrien is, “Oh, he begged me in _sixteen_ languages for a transfer, that scamp. I _wanted_ to keep him on, but the poor lad knew he was much more useful elsewhere.” Standing up, Peter straightens himself out and puts his wallet back in his back pocket. He is sufficiently done with this situation now, but he winks at him and says, “I expected you to cash in on that bet, but there is always next time.” He turns before he can see Elias’ reaction and walks out onto the London street, disappearing into the crowd as he walks off.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Footnotes:**  
>  1 The sticky note reads " ~~Captain Lukas:~~ Peter Lukas:" and then his number. Elias is using the mnemonic major system to do these number-word conversions. The technique's been around for several hundred years and was starting to be published about in the early 1800s. [return to text]
> 
> 2 Comptons (now known as Comptons of Soho) is a gay bar that's been around since 1986. (I may have spent _way_ too much time looking into which of London's gay bars have the right vibe to appeal to Elias.) [return to text]
> 
> 3 TEU = Twenty-Foot Equivalent Unit. Basically, how many 20-foot shipping containers can this thing carry. The Regina Maersk in particular was record-breakingly large when it first came on the market in 1996. [return to text]
> 
> what up it's jen, you can find me on tumblr @jennyloggins, and on twitter at both @somegarbageisok on main and @slimejen for tma/video game posting.
> 
> Leto can be found on tumblr @auto-didact (general) and @divorcecravat (TMA).
> 
>  **Content warnings:**  
>  Canon-typical murder, mentions of drug use, suicidal ideation. [return to top]


	4. Widow Maker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is your new captain speaking. Have you been having a good week? I know I have."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for all the perspective changes in this one. There's not really an elegant way to show what two characters are doing in parallel over the course of many days.
> 
> Click to view content warnings.  
> Please click to view the content warnings. This chapter is why the “monsters being monsters” tag is there.

Their phone call a few days later is _quite_ enlightening. Not for any particular reason in itself, but Elias is _thorough._ He gives him all of the information he needs about what sorts of drugs would have which effects to better suit his specific plan. On top of that, he has more information about the crew, and even offers his services helping him with taking the necessary precautions to make sure he is able to get the equipment he needs onto the ship in secret.

When they meet briefly a day later at a book shop in Fulham, Elias hands him a portfolio folder with a written memo of what they had gone over during their call. There are blueprints for the freighter in there too, and Peter thanks him for it all before disappearing to do the rest of his homework. 

The plan is simple.

Peter would be hiding out in an out of the way under-deck storeroom that did not seem to have much in the way of highly useful cargo in it based on the invoice from the supply company. It was not the pantry, nor the maintenance closet, nor first aid, or anything else of use. It was simply there for storage with lots of heavy-duty metal racks with lots of room to hide should anyone wander in. It would be easy to stay out of the way so he can do his work in peace, the room quite large in itself and affording ample notice for him to disappear if anyone opened the door.

He would sneak on and set himself up; Elias will be taking care of having essential items delivered by a delivery company that apparently does not take no for an answer when delivering items. They would put all of his supplies where they needed to be while the rest of the ship is being stocked with the cargo itself. The drug of choice is PCP, which Peter will slowly introduce into the water supply until the climactic finish a week or so later, depending on how bored Peter got with playing with his food. 

The visit with his uncle is… much less enlightening. When Peter explained his plan, Nathaniel was indifferent to the details as long as the lesson was taught and he wasn't caught. Other than that, Peter has free reign in a way he's not sure he enjoys, as this will reflect on the Lukas family. Even with the help of Bouchard, this could go drastically wrong.

The night before the ship is set to leave, Peter exerts as much of his power as he dares to make the fog roll into port thick and especially murky. It is almost a miasma—hard to breathe in and impossible to see in. He hides with it, between the shadows and the static and the cloud of the sea. The waves are gently lapping at the hull of the cargo ship, soothing Peter’s nerves enough to give him the upper hand on keeping out of sight. A bell clangs gently in the wind above the mist, and faintly in the distance, he can hear the call of the lighthouse cutting through the hushed whisper of the seaway’s sleepy state. Nobody is awake at this hour besides those who are paid to keep watch, but evidently, not closely _enough_ as Peter slips past a patrolman and up the gangway.

He is here just in time to slip into his designated space, setting himself up in his temporary quarters and taking stock of his inventory. The ship being empty right now, the first thing Peter does is find the filter for the water storage, removing it and lacing it with the powder he has. Not _too_ much, but diluted enough that people who would be eating food made with the freshwater or who would drink it would start to be _just_ off balance. 

That is also where Peter scratches his first eye, on the metal wall next to the filter compartment; it's a crude little thing, but according to Elias, if it's even vaguely eye-shaped, that is fine for his purposes. Then he goes back to his hiding place, content to keep to himself while he waits for the voyage to start. Per Elias' instructions and their agreement, he also scratches a crude-looking eye in his temporary setup. Once the crew starts hallucinating, he will join them as if he had always been there, and there will be more observation eyes with it.

While Peter was sneaking aboard the ship, Elias, like most reasonable people with a day job, was fast asleep. Thursday morning comes in brisk and clear, and Elias goes about his routine as if he would on any other day. He remembers that today is special, but he has a personal rule about not bringing work home with him unless it's absolutely necessary. If the plan had gone horribly wrong already, that was the Lukas family's fault and wholly _their_ concern.

Elias waits until he has his breakfast and his coffee in front of him before he does any spying. As always, a notepad sits beside him in case he feels his observations warrant recording.

First, he checks in with the parcel in the back of a Breekon & Hope delivery van—unopened, undelivered, as expected. He'd look in again once he arrives at work to ensure that it's en route. Next, he tries extending his vision towards the ship... and feels it connect, twofold, offering him a choice. He looks in on the water tank first, and he's unable to tell whether or not it had been tampered with yet but Peter is clearly aware of its location. Good. Elias switches over to the other eye to view Peter himself, lightly supplied and resting, back to the wall and knees drawn up towards his chest. He seems to have found a cozy corner to relax in. Elias had made the offer to forge papers and get him established as an existing crew member—he didn't have a publicly recognizable face, as far as Elias was aware—but if Peter would prefer to hide and haunt the ship, that's his prerogative.

Elias would check back in once in his office, and every few hours from then on. It's going to be a lengthy voyage, and as interested in the outcome as Elias is, he doesn't want to spend too much time on the prologue.

Peter, annoyingly, wakes up a second time to his head bumping hard against a piece of the shelving structure next to him. Checking his watch, the time is now just after 10 am, meaning they had departed from port on schedule. Most likely still in the Channel, but Peter went into this knowing it would be a long couple of days before he would be able to get to work for _real._

It being mid-day, Peter has nothing to do, so he sits, or he paces a bit, gets knocked into the shelving again when they make it to the open ocean and the waves get choppier. For a time, he talks quietly to himself, wondering if Elias is watching in. He narrates his breathing, and the movements he makes to ward off stiff joints, he goes through his bag. He drinks some water, pisses in the piss jug he’d had put in with his supplies. 

He had been rudely woken up a first time by two _very_ comically large delivery men with the most ridiculously Cockney accents he had ever heard in his life sometime during the early morning. They had dropped off his package, had him sign for it and everything. It was addressed to The Ferryman of The New Horizon. He spoke directly to his crudely drawn eye, tapping it on the misshapen pupil before he said, “You must think you're very funny, Director. The _Ferryman.”_

It is _boring._ So very boring, knowing that he has a ship full of people to terrify and can't just do it _now._ The quiet, though, is the exact kind of peaceful that he had been craving after spending weeks on land. In and out of London for business not even just involving Elias. Other stuff for his family, of course, along with arrangements to ship out of port on his own legitimate sea voyage days after he is due back in England. 

He finally stretches his legs outside of his enclosure around one in the morning. He takes the time to scratch some more eyes in the hallway leading up the many stairs and up to the deck. Peter doesn't actually leave the safety of inside, the seas too rough and the rain battering against the walls far too hard to not get immediately swept off the sides. But he explores, keeping a keen eye out for anyone walking around either on some sort of loose patrol or just heading elsewhere. He does have to disappear once when he is at the end of a hallway, and someone else rounds the corner at the other end. It is dark enough that the man is confused and rubs his head while he stumbles. 

His first victim, not entirely, but the first one he plays around with. From the static of the corridor, he whistles quietly—a jaunty little tune, The Sailor’s Alphabet. The man groans and looks around him, unable to pinpoint where the sound is coming from, even as Peter ends up behind him.

 _D is the davits on which the jolly boat hangs. ♪_ [[listen]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wg7NqrpYnOs)

He stops whistling altogether and comes out from hiding completely, pushing him none too gently and laughing as he disappears again into his fog. An unnatural sight in the hallway while the man wildly looks around, poor thing may have drunk just a bit too much water.

Peter heads to the bridge, next. Too many people to do much, but he walks around quietly exerting himself so that nobody has the urge to do much but stare away from him. He would have to come back up in a few days to mess with their course, once he increased the dosage of the drugs to something much more _fun_ to work with. For now, he scratches an eye into a door frame and heads back down below. 

Down to the under deck cargo bay where the _real_ cargo is being kept. These, too, are massive machines—farm equipment that would sell for many thousands of pounds. Kept disassembled in shipping containers, of course, but since this area is _much_ more heavily guarded even at night, it is not hard to tell that there is something special here. 

With a few more eyes etched into the walls and onto certain containers, Peter goes back below, saving the engine room for the following night. Though when things are even quieter, Peter does get back up to go dump some more of the powder into the water filter. Not a drastic amount more, but enough to surely cause some unsettlement around the ship.

Friday morning, Elias takes immediate note that the scope of his vision has opened up _quite_ a bit. Peter (currently sleeping in his little hideaway again) _did_ work fast. Good man.

In the evening Elias settles down into his home study with his tea and a copy of the ship blueprints he'd had one of his employees trace out on large graph paper. He spends a good while Watching and marking down where he's sure the Eyes are located in pen and approximate locations in pencil for the rest. Sometime in there Piper wanders in to join him, and Elias allows the cat to curl up on his lap. Scratching the back of her neck and feeling her fur shift under his hand helps keep him focused on-task when a lot of it is staring at empty rooms and empty hallways.

Elias gets to know the crew, in his way. He has a pile of information on them, but most of it is incomplete and dull. So he watches them go about their duties and puts their voices and mannerisms and faces to the names he has. Listens to them chat and play cards in the mess hall. Hears apologies about being slow on their turns, because their attention just isn't here today. Elias watches one of them drop her hand on the floor and bump her head on the table as she leans down to collect the cards. Briefly, Elias checks in with the water filter and sees that yes, it _has_ been disturbed since yesterday. He hopes that Peter was following his written advice on increasing the dosage gradually. Wouldn't want the crew sensing that something is amiss while they could still navigate back to port.

He looks in on Peter, too. Funnily enough, he's also playing cards and is impressively far along in a game of solitaire. In the pauses while Elias is thinking of what to write down for his observations of the crew's activities, his vision idly drifts back to watching Peter play. Seeing if he's in the habit of talking to himself. Seeing if he notices. Elias doesn't care much either way.

There is a certain madness to playing ten solitaire games in a row. Shuffling cards back and forth in the top left deck and trying to fit them in on his stacks, and then circling around back to the beginning until he can squeeze a move out. Peter can see _exactly_ where he can cheat, but he tries not to for as long as he can. Helping himself out is not at the top of his list of things he likes to do, but even he is not immune after a point. Looking both ways around himself as if to check if anyone is watching, he lifts the bottom few cards of a stack and puts it on an empty tile, lifting his three of diamonds and revealing the ace of hearts. From there, the game ends quickly, stacking all of the suits together and smirking in triumph. 

It is short lived, though, the roll of the ship on a rough wave sending his cards across the floor some. Making a disapproving sound, he says, “Oh, fine. My punishment for cheating, I suppose.” Leaning over as far as he can reach, he gathers up the cards to put them away, deciding against another game. 

Sighing, he looks around again, unhappy to be at sea and not on his own ship _and_ still waiting for the right time to pounce. He wonders if Elias is looking in, can't feel him right now if he is, but that may be the distance between them. Considering the weight of the cargo and the number of containers, they may run a couple of days over schedule, which Peter had prepared for. Meaning, 14–17 days is their timeframe, and two days in would put him somewhere around the Iberian peninsula, possibly just about to be parallel with Portugal. Not too far away, but far enough to possibly dim his awareness of Elias’ prying gaze. Maybe he's imagining it, the tingle on the back of his neck, but if Elias is watching, it is not at full attention.

But with nothing to do for at _least_ another three hours as he waits for most of the crew to head to bed, Peter is now bored enough to consider being absolutely awful. Truly, there is only so much he can do before falling back on a classic nighttime activity when in captivity such as this. So he rummages through his supplies until he finds what he's looking for, a bottle of lube stashed in there that he'd found while rummaging around. Can't even remember if he'd had it put in there himself or if it is a gift, but he considers it and then undoes his belt.

The sound of the buckle clacking is almost too loud in the quiet of the room, but it hardly deters Peter. Unzipping his pants, he tugs them down to his knees, pulling one leg out as he says, “Might as well.” Then he tugs down his briefs just enough to pull his cock out, sighing as his skin hits the cool air. “Nothing else to do, right Elias? Are you watching me? Can’t really tell, don't really care either. But you know, I _really_ wanted to get under that table and suck you off while you told that rude woman off. She was so _nosy.”_

Popping the cap on the lube, he pours a bit out onto his fingers, sucking in a breath as he grabs himself in his hand. “You looked ready to tear her head off, it was _really_ attractive. I wanted to make good on our bet, but I suppose you have other plans for that.”

Elias is truly grateful that he is not at work right now. Here, the only living creature around to hear him react is a cat (who he ushers onto the floor before things start getting terribly inappropriate). The notes are pretty much done and this is _far_ more interesting, so Elias leaves his work alone for now to retreat into his bedroom and close the door behind him.

How often had Peter been soliloquizing on his own and he just hadn't caught it? Probably a lot, Elias thinks. Given their interactions, it does seem like Peter is the sort to speak his mind even to the empty air. It's the act of speech itself that called Elias' concentration, but it's the content that earned his flushed interest. That's the justification Elias gives himself for taking off his pants and climbing into bed.

Peter mentioning that he would have sucked him off during their business lunch had been jarring enough to hear on the day itself, and now he's just twisting the knife in, isn't he. But he is quite correct about Elias having other plans. And as tempting as that image of Peter on his knees in the restaurant is, many of the possible things Elias has in mind require a tad more privacy. He'd like to have the chance to freely speak, for one, because Peter deserves to hear just how much of a degenerate he is—especially since Elias has _examples_ now. Elias is curious to see just how deep he's going to continue digging that grave tonight.

“Oh, _Elias,”_ Peter sighs, not in a completely pleased way, more on the edge of exasperated with himself for being so caught up in the first place. As if he is not talking to himself right now—or perhaps… _there,_ there he is. “I think about marking up your gorgeous skin. Did you have to wear turtlenecks for a couple days, or did you hole up in your office from dawn to dusk? I would say I’m sorry, but I’m not.”

As he starts moving his hand, he can't help but let a puff of air escape his lungs on the tail end of a quiet groan. Being watched is usually such a miserable affair, and Peter knows a thing or two about disappearing away from any sort of prying gaze. Bouchard is the same as any other man, any other person he may have fucked around with and never spoken to again, except he's finding he does not necessarily _mind_ being watched like this by him. It’s just the circumstances of them being thrown in one another’s path and knowing he can't dispose of this particular person who might cause him to feel anything troubling—that is why Peter keeps antagonizing him like this. He begrudgingly finds Elias somewhat interesting, but that is as far as he will allow himself to go.

“I think about how you tasted, about how you smelled. Got me through some long nights on the Tundra. Tell me—oh, wait, you can't, you're not actually here. Well, anyway, next time we meet, tell me, did you enjoy the show? Did you touch yourself watching me? Are you going to touch yourself now? I think you should.”

With his other hand, he pulls up his thick sweater by the hem, pushing it up over his stomach to expose his skin. “Not yet, though. Wait, wait until I say so.” Reaching up, he pinches his own nipple, rolling the nub between his fingers as he closes his eyes and moans.

Listening, Elias is brought back to the fallout the morning after the wedding. He'd woken up cotton-mouthed and _aching,_ and two painkillers and another shower later he'd felt steady enough on his feet to check the damage. There was some light bruising on his hips and on his ass—not at all a concern, as Elias' body healed up quickly. The placement of those bitemarks was trickier to manage, especially the one up _unnecessarily_ high on his neck. On the flight and journey back he hadn't bothered doing anything to cover it, but before he returned to work he'd had to buy a shade of concealer that matched his new skin tone. He didn't generally bother with makeup outside of these sorts of cases. Bit of a hassle.

Elias knew that Peter wasn't sorry, even on that morning. He wouldn't be either. Besides, he's always been a fan of souvenirs.

It's _thrilling,_ being informed that he's been occupying so many of Peter's passionate thoughts. Potentially nearly all of them since the night they'd slept together. Elias cannot say the same for himself, but then again he had the easy distraction of familiar bars with open-minded gentlemen while Peter had been travelling the seas or stuck in foreign ports. He probably hadn't done much—unless he was into women. Elias isn't sure on that one yet, and it's certainly far from his mind at the moment.

Presently Elias is arranging his space by pushing the duvet and sheets to the foot of the bed and picking out an assortment of items from his nightstand. Knowing that Peter was doing this to kill time and torment him in the doing, Elias expects to be here for a while. He Watches, and undresses, and calls Peter something _quite_ improper through a smile. And it's very good that Peter asks him to wait when he does, because that's the next thing Elias was going to do with the lube in his hand. He huffs, rolls onto his side, and smears it onto his fingers to start working his ass open. It's not like he would ever know, and Elias _had_ just watched him cheat the card game.

“I keep wondering how you’ll want me when I’m on my knees. I suppose that's part of the surprise.” Pulling back his foreskin, Peter takes a second to rub the heel of his palm against the head of his cock. “I think you'll be positively _intolerable_ about it, but I don't like owing anyone _anything.”_ A bet is a bet, and Peter always pays up on his bets, which is why he will be much more careful about betting with Elias in the future.

“I have a feeling you didn't listen to me anyway, are you already touching yourself? Can't even follow a simple instruction, can ya? I oughta smack that grin off your face.” Pure conjecture, doesn't really care if he's right or not. “You seemed to like a bit of punishment, Elias.” Back to jerking himself off, he goes slow, savouring the rush that goes through him. “Or do you _really_ like things a little bit slower? Do you want to be romanced? You’re doing a lot of personal favours for the wrong man if the hand you're looking for is gentle.” Chuckling at himself for thinking such a foolish line of thought out loud, Peter lets his head fall back against the cold metal wall. 

“If you were good for me and didn't touch yourself, you may. If you were, stop.” Pausing, he readjusts his hips so he can push up into his fist on his downstroke. “Do you use toys on yourself? I bet you have a nice collection of weird, creepy little things to use on yourself. I want you to slide one in and imagine you're in my lap.” Letting his chest go, Peter puts his hand up to the empty air to imitate holding onto Elias’ hip. “Desperate for me to let you move so you can ride my cock, but I'm holding you in place and won't let you move.”

Gentle? Certainly not. The whole appeal of getting involved with other members of their circle is the danger inherent in it. Elias has been treated with _care_ before, and he prefers a certain level of attentiveness, but gentle kindness? He doesn't trust that coming from someone like Peter Lukas as far as he can throw him. Elias knows how to take care of himself. If he wanted _affection,_ he'd do the sensible thing and go to somebody who doesn't take joy in serving a soul-devouring entity.

Elias follows instruction much easier when he doesn't have to maintain a face in front of his company, and doubly so when he can't even communicate. He goes, almost automatically, rising up onto his knees. Regrettably he has to break the connection for a moment to figure out the lube and the dildo he brought over. In his periphery Elias sees the Eye in striking oil brushstrokes watching him from the wall near the footboard. He supposes it's fair to give his patron a bit of a show too when its powers are the thing allowing Elias to do this in the first place.

The dildo is a modest size and realistic in shape, and from ample time with Peter's cock in his mouth Elias can reasonably say that this is smaller. It's certainly still satisfying to sink down on its length when it doesn't have nearly as much give to it as a real one would.

The next time Peter opens his eyes, he is not the only one using them. Elias is doing the one thing he _can_ do to exert his presence on the scene through causing the slight pressure around his eyes and the electric tickle at the back of his brain. Elias lets him know beyond a doubt that he is here, and, in stilling his hips with the cock deep inside of him, that he is listening.

When Peter opens his eyes, he speaks much more quietly, “Oh _there_ you are, Elias. Much better.” Settling back against the wall a little more easily, he spreads his legs and places his feet on the floor firmly. “Are you comfortable?” Pausing as if he is waiting for an answer, he chuckles and says, “I don't care. But I bet you've got a stupid look on your face like you're annoyed at me. Sometimes I wonder how your Eye works, like if I interrupted you just now in the middle of something by saying your name to catch your attention. Or were you spying on me otherwise waiting for something like this to happen.”

Taking a breath, Peter looks down at himself, cock in hand. “I’ve been thinking about fucking you, about how tight you are around me. About you riding my cock until your legs give out.” His mental Elias makes an attractive picture, but he's getting ahead of himself. “I’d like to mark you up with my teeth again, take a proper bite out of you. I’d like to push you to your limits, don't think I was rough enough with you last time.”

Peter sounds different when Elias is listening from inside his head. He'd been fixating on that voice—airy and so very casually cruel. Hearing it as Peter does, Elias catches more of the rumble in it, helped along by the context of the situation.

His bedroom isn't cool but a shiver starts at his shoulders and falls down his arms. Elias is reminded that his hands are idle when they do not need to be, and he spends a moment groping around for the lube to make the first real contact with his cock slick and _delightful._ He can feel the sound he makes—a groan, breathy and dry—but Elias is utterly deaf to it. His hips roll up into his fist but he arrests the movement quickly. Peter hasn't given him permission to move yet.

Elias jerks himself off slow and firm to the sight of Peter's stomach and cock. And to those _promises,_ too. Nails piercing into his thigh isn't a bite, but it's a close enough approximation. "Oh _Peter,_ you're going to have plenty of frustration to work out whenever I see you next. I told you I didn't intend to be gentle." The distance makes it impossible for that thought to be conveyed, but Peter doesn't have to be alone in speaking to an empty room.

“You could be watching me make a fool of myself right now, talking aloud to an empty room, but _oh,_ if you were in my lap, I’d have my hands and my mouth all over you.” His own hand had gone idle in his fantasy, and he starts a leisurely pace pack up, groaning deep with it. “I'd get my teeth on your nipples,” he pinches his own again with it, making sure to look so Elias can see him do it. “I bet you've undermined my command and have already gone and touched yourself. Or maybe you're watching me desperately pawing at myself and you think I’m a horny degenerate. If it’s the latter, you're woefully right. The former? I want you to fuck yourself as fast as my hand is going.” Groaning again, he speeds up his pace.

Peter is… getting too close to being amicable, fool that he is. He is _definitely_ making a buffoon of himself, but for what? For trying to fluster Elias? He doesn't know what makes that man tick, not really besides the rough treatment. Which, yes, he can give, but to what end? As it is, he expects to give him oral, be a bit humiliated, and then Peter would be able to have his bet debt cleared, free to think of nothing and nobody at all. That _must_ be why Elias has crossed Peter’s thoughts so often, having his own loss hanging over his head.

Elias mirrors playing with his nipple on his own chest, digging into it with the edge of his nail. He was starting to get used to the feeling of them unadorned, but how he is rethinking that. Jonah had piercings, and he'd carried on that tradition with his other bodies as he took them. Elias makes a note to have that done at some point, and to show up to his appointment as prim and buttoned-down as possible so he could practice his poker face.

He's amused and grinning at Peter's self-awareness as Elias holds the base steady and raises himself up and back down on the dildo. A horny degenerate, indeed. Elias isn't ashamed to admit that that makes two of them. He could have let Peter masturbate on his own and watched from the comfort of his office, but that wasn't _nearly_ as much fun.

Continuing to be smug is tricky while Elias is actively trying to match pace with Peter. He's struck by the intimacy of the situation once he gets it. Between the gasps and moans he's murmuring filthy nonsense, and Peter's name, and _funny_ how he doesn't have a problem begging when there's nobody around to hear it.

Peter certainly can't keep up with his own imagination, fondling his chest and squeezing his fist around himself. He struggles to keep his eyes open for a moment, blinking long and slow while he savours the feeling. But he wants Elias to see what he's doing to him, and says as much. “Are you close? If you were here, I'd flip you on your back and fuck you proper by now. Or would you have other ideas for me, get me all ruined and rough me up instead?” Just thinking about that makes a shiver run down his spine, and it's not too much later before he's about to come. He does so into his hand and on his stomach, moaning a little surprised sound that turns into a deep rumble in his chest as he finishes himself off. 

He waits a few seconds before he says, “Could tell you not to come yet, but I don't think you’ll listen to me. So I’ll give you _permission,_ you can come now _Elias.”_ It is wholly insincere and smarmy sounding, but it's the best he can do from where he is sat on the floor of a ship, in hiding with no way to communicate other than speaking to an empty room.

Peter mentioning being roughed up was a mistake, because for Elias, those floodgates are open now and that is _all_ that he can think about. In his head he is on top of Peter, riding him mercilessly, as if the only parts of him of any worth are his cock and his hand (the perspective's backwards, but it's easy for Elias to picture that _he's_ the one being jerked off, and Peter does end up with come on his stomach all the same.) In his head, Elias is pinning Peter's other arm down to the mattress because he cannot keep it to himself. He's staring down at kiss-bitten lips and hickeys and hearing him breathlessly moan in real-time.

And then Peter just _has_ to continue talking, doesn't he.

Elias wants to smack him for it.

Elias wants to _choke_ him for it.

Elias wants to lash him to the bed so he doesn't go running off again, the selfish cunt. He'd say "didn't your parents teach you any manners," but no, that's absolutely true. Peter is a self-absorbed _child_ of a man, and he doesn't own him.

_He doesn't own me. He doesn't deserve to._

That's the mantra rattling around in Elias' head as orgasm rips his focus away from the ship and into his bedroom. It hurts so very beautifully and he surprises himself with the force of his yell. Were he not on his knees already, that would have surely put him there. Elias hunches forwards and pants through the aftershocks, milking his cock for all he's got in him.

Elias takes some time to recover and to process. He has the good sense to wipe himself down a bit and fumble for one of the bottles of water he keeps in his nightstand before he lays down and covers himself with the bedsheet. He considers calling it for the night and not checking in with Peter until much later, because who knows if he might say something else infuriating. But he doesn't stay away. Elias, eyes closed, Watches from his vantage point on the wall. Unlike Peter, he has the decency to not _abandon_ a partner after finishing. He may not notice or even care, but Elias does.

For a blissful second, Peter is _alone._ He feels Elias’ gaze slip away, and he can close his eyes and breathe finally. Letting Elias look through his eyes and not just closing them on him had taken a lot more out of him than he expected. Wracked his nerves something good to be used to be _seen,_ now especially that he had post-orgasm clarity returning to him. Stupid of him in the first place to get the man’s attention, worse to speak his thoughts aloud like that. What _is_ it about Bouchard that got Peter to not be able to shut his mouth? 

Something to think of for another time, because he does feel that tingle on the back of his neck again, knowing he's being watched. Of course, in true Peter Lukas fashion, he chooses to run his mouth again. “Did you enjoy yourself, Bouchard? I know I did.”

It’s the last he says to him while he cleans himself up, righting his clothing and dusting himself off when he's all settled again. For the next long while, he hums to himself, some song or other he picked up at some place during some time. The details are hazy, naturally, but when his watch reads half eleven, he decides that enough time has passed and that it's time to cause a bit of mayhem. 

Opening the door to his hideaway, Peter steps out into the brisk air of the ship, stretching and cracking his bones with it. His first course of action is heading into the under-deck cargo hold, along the way finding a very sturdy broom and dragging it along with him. When he's in front of a container out of sight of any crew, he winds up like he's holding a bat and strikes the metal as hard as possible. The metallic ‘thwack’ rings out, followed by someone not too far off swearing. Peter does it again to another container a few feet away, the sound echoing around the enclosed space.

From there, he hides himself in the static, shadowed momentarily while someone walks over to investigate. Peter had, astonishingly, memorized the crew profiles for once to better tailor this experience. Caelan Grannell, an Irish lad, exceptionally tall at 188cm and built like a brick wall. Bit of a mean mug on him besides the jolly-looking dimples peeking out above an auburn beard, but the profile had described him as easy to get along with. 

Peter watches him look around, gently repeating, “What?” as he takes a look between containers. Caelan shrugs, and heads back to his post, and Peter waits another ten or so minutes before he does it again a little further off. The handle of the broom bounces back awfully in his hands from how hard he hits the container siding, almost making him drop it altogether. 

It gives him an idea, though. After a moment, Peter hides the broom and walks around the corner just in time to nearly bump into his meal. He pretends to catch a fright, jumping as he says, “Oh! Nearly startled me half to death there, Caelan. You been hearing that noise too?”

The man gives him a puzzled once over, looking behind himself and then back to Peter as he slowly says, “Right… Sorry ‘bout that. Have we met at all before?”

Pressing a hand to his own chest, Peter acts as hurt as he is able to muster up. “Caelan, I’ve been standing guard with you since we were posted. We had a talk about laying off the drink, been making us act a bit crazy… I keep stumbling around like a newborn deer trying to get my sea legs again.” Pausing for effect with a bit of mock, situational laughter at himself, Peter follows up with, “You made a pact with me that we’re sticking to water for a few days until it subsides? No? I must be quite forgettable then.”

“Oh, no, that's right, I remember now,” Caelan mumbles, trying to save face. Good. “Sorry, ah, I did forget your name though, what was it again?”

Somehow… a question Peter did not think he would be asked, and he blanks for a moment, forgetting every name that has ever existed before settling on, “Aaron.” Safe bet to go with one of his brother’s names. “...Bouchard.” 

Right. 

“Right, right, good ol’ AB.”

“Exactly,” Peter says, clapping his hands, “My blood type to boot! Listen, we should keep an eye out for one another, right? Been hearing some _spooky_ stuff around here, lots of clanging, and a bit of moaning like there's some kind of ghost or something. On a brand new ship? Would hate to think it's already haunted.”

“Yeah, right? Keep an eye out down on this end, I’m gonna go back over to my post and listen around.”

“Right you are, Grannell,” Peter says with a mock salute in his direction. “And lay off the booze, we promised we’d drink more water.”

“Aye, we did,” his unfortunate mark says, waving over his shoulder at him. 

Peter spends the rest of his shift out getting the routes around the ship committed into memory, popping some more eyes around on board. One quick stop to the filter to dump some more of the drugs in there, increasing the dosage again, and he heads back to his lonely little corner. Once he settles in for the morning, he packs his stuff up to make it easier to take the place of whichever random crew member he would be tossing into his patron’s realm.

Peter's last words to Elias are, like last time, a taunt. He thinks he's heard quite enough of that. Even though he's trying to relax, Elias does the dutiful thing and waits around. Only when he's sure that no further message or report will come does he leave Peter to his business.

Elias takes a shower, but it doesn't help his restlessness. Peter was _right_ —he _had_ enjoyed himself, and it's only after the deed was done that it's getting under his skin. That's twice now he's wanted to tear the man apart and twice now that he's come harder than he has in _months._

"Ugh, I'm being an idiot. Getting worked up over some _Lukas._ Terrible."

He needs better hobbies, he thinks. Something appropriately cathartic that _doesn't_ involve intimacy of any kind. Was Elias Bouchard ever a boxer? That could be something to try.

There is no possible way that Elias will be able to sleep like this, but he does at least get into more comfortable clothing. He wraps a thick bathrobe around himself and takes his smoking supplies out to the balcony. And, after some consideration, the bag of cat treats as well. Naturally, the cat is quick to join him.

Out on the patio bench, Elias falls into the familiar habit of packing and lighting his pipe. The addition of marijuana to the tobacco makes the experience a bit different, but the motions are the same. He's having trouble soothing himself emotionally, but the view helps. The smoking helps. And having a furry companion eat a treat out of his hand helps, a little.

Elias doesn't speak for a good long time. He tries not to get too maudlin. Alone, he's not the best at it.

"I'm sorry I killed your previous owner," he quietly says, scratching Piper behind the ears in the way that she likes. Elias, realizing what he's saying, scoffs. "No, I shouldn't lie. I'm not. He was kind of a waste of space."

Elias relaxes into his seat with a sigh. "You can probably tell, can't you. Does it hurt, watching me perform his old habits? Does it give you hope that he's going to come back? He isn't. He's dead, dear. Just like all the others."

He looks out over London from on high. The Thames, Vauxhall Bridge, the old Battersea Power Station; a monolith of brick and huge white lime wash towers. He'd never met the architects behind it but he certainly knew Giles Gilbert Scott's grandfather from back in the day. The station hasn't choked the sky with coal dust for over a decade. George would disapprove.

"I should go and treat myself tomorrow," Elias muses, tapping the pipe stem against his bottom lip. "Have a nice lunch. Get some reading done." Already, he can feel the start of a migraine coming on. Elias had overexerted himself much more than was practical or wise, and all for _foolish_ reasons.

"Should get a _proper_ meal in, too. Especially if I'm to be spending days on this. What do you think, Piper? Should I drop by the mental hospital? Or find a journalist to rile up?" The cat stands up, meows in disapproval (from too much attention, probably), and hops down off the bench. "You're right, that's a bit mean. Television Centre it is." Elias does like the BBC, but the irresistible thing about reporters is that they are watched and watchers both. And they do tend to have some _fascinating_ secret stories.

Possibly against his better judgement, Elias Looks in on Peter again before he goes to bed. Catches the tail end of his interaction with Mr. Grannell. Elias can't help a bit of a smile at the talk of ghosts and water.

Mid-afternoon on the next day, Peter heads up to a crew member out on the deck having a smoke, the seas much calmer today. The weather is a bit drizzly with some wind, but overall not too shabby. There is some fog out over the water, but not a terrible lot—an observation made while Peter scratches another crude eye onto the wall of the ship facing out over the bow. Not until Peter starts to slowly exert himself as he leans against the railing with one Airis Krancis, an average height Latvian man with dark, closely cropped hair mostly hidden by a thick knit cap that is pulled down just over his ears. 

The man nods in regard to him, and Peter nods back before he asks, “Left my smokes down in my bunk, would you mind terribly if I bummed one off you? Been days since I got out here.” He gets a pack pointed toward him, and Peter takes one out, accepting the lighter, he curls his other hand around the end to shield the flame from the wind, taking a few tries before it actually works. Once he's lit up, he hands the lighter back and says, “Good man.”

Peter doesn't get a reply, but the sky goes just a hint darker as more clouds take up the sky. The fog over the water coils toward the ship slowly, as if gently rolling in, but this is much more nefarious in nature. “Airis, yeah? Name’s Aaron, pleased to meet ya. Got any family back home?”

He gets a confused look, but this one isn't much for words, nodding again and giving a one word, “Yeah.”

“Great thing, having a family to welcome you home, you ever start to forget what they look like though? You spend so long at sea, back and forth across the ocean and to different continents and all sorts of countries. If it were up to me though, I’d spend the rest of my life drifting here on open waters. Letting the current take me wherever it feels like. _Alone,_ and yearning for the comfort of my lover. I don't have any kids, but I can imagine the pride that would come from rearing one would make it that much harder each time you ship out. Tell me, Airis, are you a good father? Do your children love you? Little Eliza and Rinaldo? Does Mina keep faithful to you?”

He can _feel_ it, the gentle fear behind the sudden anger. It tastes delightful, but, it’s a shame that he doesn't have time to let this one marinate in it a little longer. “Who are you? How do you—”

“Oh, don't worry, you’ll never see them again anyway,” Peter says as he focuses, ripping a pocket open to his patron’s realm just behind Airis, the static rising up all around them. “Been a nice chat, but you’ll be going now. Gonna just…” Pulling the cigarette pack back out of his breast pocket along with the lighter, Peter pushes him backwards into the Lonely, watching him fall back with wide eyes. Closing the doorway in the next moment, Peter pockets the cigarette pack and finishes what's left of his. The sacrifice soothes him, clears his head to get him back to focusing on his mission here.

By now, they are most likely to be halfway between the Azorian islands and Canary islands, Peter would bet. A perfect distance from England to start messing with their course. Not exactly to go off course, but to give the appearance of engine issues. Now, Peter is no ship mechanic, of course, but he is confident that he could stall them far off the coast of Sierra Leone, wreak some havoc, and get himself safely to port so he can vanish, letting his competitor pick up the pieces. 

Heading to the engine room, it’s easy to tell the person on duty that he's there to relieve her, the poor thing having vomited all over the ground long enough ago that it’s started to dry and the smell has all but dissipated. She nearly falls and cracks her head open, off balance, sweating and mumbling about purple flowers tickling her from under the grates on the stairs. 

He doesn't need earplugs, softening the sound around him by force as he heads out of the control room and through the fire door to check out the actual engines. Whistling to himself in appreciation, there are all manner of impressive exhaust manifolds, fuel pumps, and cylinder heads spanning four different decks. _Four_ diesel generators, two air reservoirs, a boiler twice as large as on the Tundra. It’s certainly all a bit extraordinary. Shame that he can't requisition this ship like he would if he were a pirate or something to that effect.

Ultimately, he goes to the switchboard room unbothered, as the one staff member has already left at his insistence. He takes some time to familiarize himself with where certain functions are. Then he finds the workshop where all of the spare parts and tools are located. And then finally, he finds the emergency hatch tucked away out of sight. It would allow him to hit the engine room and then climb multiple ladders leading to the upper deck. He takes a test run, climbing (and stopping at each resting spot where the ladder breaks to another one adjacent, a bit bent out of shape for how demanding it is to go up so many rungs at once) and reaching the upper deck. And from there, it is a short walk to the bridge. 

Today he chances going in, standing against a wall as he watches a couple of people having a rough time. One of them has soiled themselves in piss, another is scratching at his arms. There is one who looks rather fed up with her crewmates' nonsense, seeming otherwise unaffected and unwilling to intervene to boss anyone around. Interesting, but when she looks at him and gives him a once over, all she does is nod at him. 

His tour complete and the crew going about their hallucinations, Peter finally goes back to his hole, gathers up all of his things, and moves into the cabin room of poor Airis. He stashes his things in one of the storage lockers, taking a moment to say aloud to himself, “Bigger than my crew quarters, but still so small. Genius…” Giving the illusion of space, but really not giving any more freedom. Something to take away from this for sure, though for now, Peter locks his new bedroom door and kicks off his shoes, intending to take a nap and sleep away the aches and pains of resting on and against cold, hard metal for days on end.

Elias spends his morning deliberately not engaging with work business of any sort beyond the occasional check-in to see if Peter is getting up to any mischief. More than anything, getting a proper workout in helps with some of the stress. His new body has aged past its prime but it's _worlds_ better than living in James'. He'd been on painkillers near-constantly, close to the end. There's plenty of room for improvement with this one, but week by week, Elias is getting it there.

He takes a late lunch in the central garden of the BBC's Television Centre, seated as close to the central sculpture as he can get. Here, surrounded on all sides by dozens and dozens of office windows, Elias feels very much at home. A statue of Helios is raised in the middle of this particular panopticon, and isn't that entertaining, in a way? The Sun itself, illuminating and omnipresent. Almost _reminds_ one of something.

Elias drinks in the low-level anxiety of every person working in their little glass prisons. Every so often, he makes direct and piercing eye contact with anyone hoping to clear their head by staring out into the yard. There are going to be an awful lot of sleepless employees showing up to work over the next while. A lot of people afraid to take the Tube for all the _staring,_ terrified of what horrors a train car full of observers could enact upon them in an inescapable place. Maybe an eventual suicide or two, if he's very lucky. But Elias isn't trying all that hard.

His attention is focused on the final moments of Airis Krancis aboard the _New Horizon._ Elias can certainly empathize with how very _fun_ it is to pull the perfect amount of unknowable information out of someone and slice into their soul with it. The secondhand fear is soothing and good but the new information from chatty little Peter Lukas is even _better._ The trick about maintaining a good cover identity is not overcomplicating things by telling too many unnecessary lies. That's why Elias is inclined to think that Peter is, in fact, childless. "Yearning for the comfort of my lover" is almost certainly an exaggeration, but it still does make Elias chuckle to himself—much to the paranoia of a passerby.

Peter settles down to rest and Elias gets up to start making his way back home. Things seem to be progressing nicely. He hopes that Peter is going to remember to contaminate the water supply in a more directly observable way. The crew is already suspecting that there's something going on, but they could be so much more concerned.

In the evening, Peter gets back up to his hijinks, this time more directly. He passes by the one unfortunate soul who is still clawing at his arms, specks of red staining the orange fabric of his shirt. That one gets sat down while Peter grabs his face and narrates how the world will go on without him, how every single bit of him would go to rot and ruin with nobody caring. His flat emptied, his stuff sold at auction to people who would not have a single memory of him. Peter leaves him after a thorough chat, letting this one soak in his own despair.

This time when he sits in on dinner, everyone is… quite deranged. So _delightfully_ out of it and struggling to keep their coherency. There is one woman close to the back of the cafeteria that has her hands down her pants, head back against the wall as she fondles herself. Nobody else seems to notice, but he takes a seat next to her. He remembers her picture, Tessa Morrin, another Irish crewmember. She is hearty, enough muscle on her to put some of these men to shame, long hair tied up in the remnants of an elaborate braid and hanging down her back.

“Having a go at yourself?”

“Been raging since dawn, took a bite of me salt lamp, and now I feel like I’ve got the sun in my cunt. Can't get it out.”

Peter lays the back of his hand on her forehead, the skin clammy and cold to the touch. But she's sweating, her eyes bloodshot and breath ragged even as she moans. “Did you chug some water, sounds like you may be dehydrated, Tessa.”

“Don't remember, but _Jesus H_ you're cold, feels _good.”_ There is the beginning of a slur there, but Peter doesn't mention it for how Tessa presses her face into his arm. “H-help me.” 

He can practically feel her pulse the way she's pressed against his side, but he says, “I’m afraid I can't, but please, _do_ continue.”

It would be easy to take advantage of her, but it's not Peter’s style, especially with a random person drugged out of their skull. She keeps next to him, going at it, moaning and shaking as she reaches her orgasm a minute or so later. She slumps after that, and Peter decides it’s not his problem. At least they weren't accosted, because at one point someone _did_ notice, but Peter kept a bit of a mean gaze on him. He would rather not have a riot on his hands yet if he sent someone off into the Lonely to sort their own problems instead of letting this all happen as it will.

Peter steers clear of the soup, opting instead for the baked chicken. The vegetables are raw, but honestly, a bit of raw carrots are good for the vision, as Wright said to him once. Elias. Jonah… The longer this goes on, the more the depression is palpable, which would not be possible without Elias’ help. Which, of course, begs the question, why has Bouchard been so helpful to him? Why would he deliberately help arrange all of this as a personal favour to him?

This scale of misery, of hopeless feelings as the cycle of withdrawal and intoxication goes around in circles. This is a stew simmering for hours on the heat, this is a _lot_ of lives to either be snuffed or ruined. It may simply be as he says, wanting to chronicle it as some sort of offering to his patron. But something is too rich about it, too indulgent to be a simple business exchange. 

Jurrien had been a fine cigar, and the _New Horizon_ is the perfect glass of gin. _Why?_

He doesn't dwell any longer on it with things to do. Heading up to the bridge, there are a few different people from before, but all still equally out of it. Possibly because he had dumped some more drugs into the filter, and tonight he would dump some sediment and some dye in as well for a nice surprise in the morning. For now though, he says, “Storm up ahead, captain sent me up to have you change the coordinates a tad to the south.”

No argument, but manic chatter from the person who offers him some coffee. On no planet does Peter _ever_ want to suffer drinking coffee laced with PCP. So then he heads down to the cargo bay and starts fucking around with Grannell again. Noises, from all over, along with the oppressive nature of his patron twisting this enormous room with endless rows of crates into a horrid, lonely maze. Not enough to scare the piss out of him, but enough that when Peter lets him out and walks away, he has to go take a _very_ long break. 

Sediment and dye poured, Peter treats himself to a glass of whiskey and heads back to his room to enjoy it.

Now, Elias wasn't _intending_ to antagonize anyone on the way home. Honestly, he wasn't. But the thing about spending a couple of hours trying free samples in an open market and watching what was essentially cooking television was that it made a person want to get in the kitchen and play around, so to speak. That's why when Elias arrives at Sloane Square Station and goes to cut through a bit of green space on his route back home, and hears somebody _hyperventilating,_ he can't resist taking a look. They could need _help,_ after all.

A broad young man is making himself small on a park bench, arms wrapped around himself and staring at the ground. Elias Knows this person's name is Buraid Khara and he is not having a good time of it. So he asks him how he's doing, predictably gets a flinch in response, and an unperturbed Elias sits down at the other end of the bench. Calmly instructs him on how to measure out his breathing; to focus on the ground and the tension and relaxing it. Elias reassures him that although it may feel that way, he's not going to die. And once he's mostly settled, Elias even gets him to drink some water.

"Thank you," Buraid says.

Elias is very good at feigning concern. "Not a worry. I've had my fair share of panic attacks myself. It's fine." Together, the two of them sit and observe the environment. Buraid watches an ant wander across the cobblestone. Elias watches the street. "Awfully rude for nobody to check in on you," he jokes.

"Yeah." Buraid pushes his glasses up and wipes his sleeve across his eyes to dry them. "Started on the bus. The, uh, panic attack, I mean. Everyone just looked away."

Elias nods in understanding. "I know. London's like that."

"There are just so many _people."_

"Oh, there certainly are," Elias says with a bit of a laugh. "Do you know what started it? I'm—ha, I'm sorry. I'm a therapist. Hard to break the habit of asking personal questions."

Buraid attempts a little half-smile. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. I'll go if you like, but I honestly don't have anywhere to be. If you want to talk, I'll listen."

Buraid, as it turns out, is _very_ keen on talking. He tells Elias that the panic was brought on by worrying about failing his upcoming exams and that he's already on academic probation. Tells him that he's not cut out for school but terrified of being a failure. Tells him that he's seriously considering taking his parents' tuition money for next semester and running because they're terrible people and should have gotten a divorce years ago, and that he wants so _badly_ to make this university-afforded freedom into a permanent thing, even if he has to change his name and skip town to do it.

Listening to all of this almost makes Elias wish that he _was_ a therapist. It's soothing, and it's decadent, having all these secrets freely offered to him. He can even disguise his enjoyment of the experience as _compassion._ This young man has no idea what he's doing in giving him this much power.

Elias, all sympathetic smiles, tells him that he needn't change his name, because 'Buraid Khara' is a fine one and he shouldn't feel ashamed of it.

Buraid blanches. "I never told you my name."

"You never told me that you're in your second year of Pharmacology at King's College either, or that you broke up with your girlfriend Nicole Ryland five weeks ago." Elias keeps things light and amicable even as the traces of benevolence in his voice evaporate. "Running off with another woman? That's got to _sting,_ doesn't it. You called her a dyke and she almost got you _arrested._ I don't know, Mr. Khara—for what you did, I kind of think you deserve it."

"What the fuck _are_ you?"

"Hm. Terribly observant, I'd say." Elias is already taking his glasses off and tucking them away to make his scrutiny that much more _chilling._ "You're a fool for thinking you can disappear, Mr. Khara. There are so many people in London. No matter where you go, somebody is always going to be watching you."

That's the tipping point where Buraid's flight instinct takes over and he bolts. Elias watches him go, languidly and satisfied. There really is something to be said about the benefits of personal involvement.

But Elias has the common sense to head back home to spend a quiet night in with his entertainment—and what entertainment it _is._ Watching Peter misbehave, Elias rather feels like he's had his dessert before his dinner.

He takes more notes, sure enough. Things are moving along splendidly. And when he Sees Peter settling in with a celebratory whiskey, Elias decides to uncork a bottle of something dry and red to join him. On the sofa, raising his wine glass in a toast, he tells the room, "Well _done,_ Peter. This is absolutely worth the wait."

In the morning, that atmosphere is _much_ different. He is woken up by someone screaming, first of all, at around half seven. The sea is especially violent today, Peter feeling the sway of the cargo ship from the moment he cracks his eyes open. The wind is whipping outside of the window, rain pelting the thick safety glass. He opens the curtain as he gets out of bed, looking out to see the rows of cargo containers soaring above deck, brightly coloured and entirely too cheerful-looking for what he presumes is a horrible thing happening somewhere just outside the door to his stolen room.

Getting himself dressed, he stops in the bathroom for a quick piss, brushes his teeth (using his bottled water, of course), and washes his face from sleep so he can face the day feeling much fresher than anyone else aboard. When he opens the door, it’s easy to see why there is _screaming,_ a spotty trail of blood going around the corner toward the kitchen. When he rounds it, he sees Ashley Walker, a man of about forty years of age with a chunk torn out of his forearm by what looks like _teeth._ Nobody is dead, at least, not _yet_ anyway, but how _exciting._

“You let me _go_ you fuckin’ nightmare psychopath,” another crew member whose name escapes Peter says, held against the wall by Ashley. His teeth are red, and the remains of blood running down his chin are plainly seen.

“I’ll _kill_ you for this,” waving his arm in front of the other man’s face, Ashley headbutts him, knocking him into the hard metal wall behind and causing him to slump. “You fuckin’ _ate_ a piece of me, you _daft cunt.”_

It’s clear both men had been fighting for the time it had taken Peter to freshen up, bruises already forming beneath the skin for both of them. “Because you’re a _demon,_ eight feet tall and with _horns,_ m’not taking my chances,” the man grits out, uppercutting Ashley and making him stagger backward. “I’ll kill you _first.”_

Peter sidesteps them, leaving them to it as he heads into the mess hall and takes a look around. Everyone is _miserable_ looking. Sure, Peter had _really_ dumped quite a bit of the drug into the water the previous night, but his fun is only _just_ starting. This is where it will get _good._

When he takes a seat, he does so without any food, feasting instead on the sheer alienation that now befell the crew. Personally, he was drinking in the solitude of nobody speaking like an after-dinner taste of brandy. Granted, there are only three other people here, all sitting alone. Tessa is nowhere to be seen, perhaps off rubbing another one out in a more sensible place. Outside, he can still hear Ashley and the other man fighting, but he hardly cares to break them up. His bet is on the other man, funnily enough. Anyone who would tear (and eat?) another man’s flesh would have quite a lot of willpower to keep going.

The intercom then crackles to life for the first time in the entire time he's been on the ship. And, so it begins.

**“Attention, all personnel. This is an emergency announcement from your Captain. Stop using the water on this ship, effective _immediately._ There has been a contamination found. We will be making an emergency stop at Dakar within the next five hours.”**

The voice sounds _beyond_ haggard, tired and ill in a way that sends a sense of thrill through Peter. The one person who was drinking the water tosses the cup to the floor, the plastic skidding across the floor as the boat lurches. The metal groans, and he can hear one of the kitchen staff vomiting behind the door into the pantry. What a shame.

When the time is right, he heads down to the engine room, finding it blissfully empty. From there, he reduces power to the engine, not cutting it completely. And then he goes through the fire door, shutting off valves as he goes. Nothing that would make anything explode—Peter _is_ still on this ship too, of course. But enough to cause power failures to the generators and random enough that it would take a while to figure out just which parts of the room are compromised. That is, on a good day, for a sober engineer. The next week or so would be spent with a bunch of dehydrated lunatics having some _very_ powerful withdrawal symptoms.

Finding the emergency exit ladder again, Peter climbs up, this time having anticipated how taxing it would be and climbing the ladder a bit easier this time. He has to take a couple of moments to catch his breath when he finally reaches the top, but he heads to the bridge and finds it empty save for one miserable man with a puddle of vomit down his torso, and another person who looks only slightly less worse for wear. At least she’s not covered in her own bile.

This time though, Peter doesn’t even have to pull a vanishing act, sighing as he takes a seat at the helm and punches in some coordinates. “Captain sent me up to change course. Are you two quite alright? I can handle it here, maybe you both should go get some rest and, er… clean up.”

They go without hesitation, both of them stumbling as the boat lurches again from the force of another wave crashing. Judging by the radar, the weather would be getting worse quite soon. Until then, Peter would sit and enjoy the silence. The next phase of his plan would be a multi-day veritable _feast._ And with that thought, Peter cuts off all satellite communication to the outside world by flipping a switch and using the fire extinguisher on the wall to bash the control panel beyond repair.

With every new eye carving made with deliberate and specific purpose, Beholding's dominion aboard the _New Horizon_ grows. The drugs do help it along, of course, but there is a reason why so many of the crew's symptoms are manifesting as distrust and paranoia. Their fears aren't even unfounded; there is most certainly a saboteur among them, and they are definitely being watched.

Over the last three days of dedicating a significant portion of his waking hours to observing the tragedy unfold, Elias is starting to get a sixth sense for when and where he should be paying attention—a reward for his faithful dedication. He, like Peter, wakes up to the sights and sounds of violence. Elias catches more of it than his counterpart in the field does, relishing the very human brutality as he smiles into his pillow. Oh, he _hopes_ there is going to be a proper riot. He's invested in these people's lives and suffering when there are so few of them here. It's all rather like a play, with himself as the director and Peter as the lead. He likes that.

Elias spends the Sunday surveilling when his patron nudges him to do so and doing housework when there is a break in the action. Mundane things like going through his closet and taking stock of what he has in his kitchen and his bar. Detailing the locations of the carvings on the map of the ship and writing out especially memorable snatches of dialogue that he catches. He tracks down where his ritual coffer is, too, where it has sat since the move into this flat. It's not often he gets it out, but for something as special as chronicling _this,_ Elias would like to do something a little ceremonial when it comes time to write the statement.

Peter spends the rest of the afternoon on the bridge in solitude, the rocking of the cargo ship much more soothing than anything. The wind is boisterous, bringing fat drops of rain with it that crash against the windows ceaselessly. The frightful weather is what Peter imagines a lullaby to be like, the very isolating nature of it making him sigh happily as he watches the waves crash up against the hull and spill over onto the deck. So much to do, so much time to do it in, and so many creative ways to do it—this is now Peter’s playground to do what he pleases in. King of the sandbox, as the expression goes, and his Lonely sandbox will be gaining quite a few new playmates within the next few days.

Humming to himself, he turns in his chair, looking for where the intercom is. Finally finding it, he stands up and goes to it, turning it on and tapping the microphone. He hears the slight feedback, and the tapping, and then starts, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is your new captain speaking. Have you been having a good week? I know I have, watching all of you slowly going _insane._ There is, what, one person missing from your ranks now? Or is it two people? Pity, they will be _sorely_ missed.

“I have an _announcement_ to make. As you may have heard me say,” Peter takes a pause there, letting anyone listening ruminate on this, “I am your new captain. How exciting! I've always wanted to be captain of a boat this frighteningly large. There is so much room here to stretch out and be completely, and totally _alone._ Have any of you thought about that lately? Your own existence and how meaningless it is? You are but one person of billions on this earth, and in the end all you _really_ have is your own self. Do you think anyone else aboard cares about you and your wellbeing?

“Do you think about your own death? What will happen in the final moments? Will you drown on this ship if it goes down? Scared and helpless at your stations so your employer may have made a _disgusting_ amount of money. Or perhaps you would rot in a jail cell in the Republic of the Congo. Did you know that a _quarter_ of your cargo was to be sold on the black market and that none of you would have seen a single pound of that? If you were caught at Pointe-Noir,” Peter tsks into the microphone, “Well, _you_ would’ve gone down for that. Your captain would have placed the blame on you to spare himself—where _is_ he anyway?

“Hiding to save his own skin, _poisoning_ you until you can't think straight. Well, I think it’s time we do something about it, don't you? I think we should find him and make him _pay._ We should drag him out of his hiding spot and have _no_ mercy for him. Captain Douglas Byrne, where _aaaaare_ you?” He ends it on a cruel, singsong note. 

He has actually met the man once before, perhaps twice. It has been such a long time that Peter hardly cares to remember much about the encounter in any amount of specific detail. But he had never liked him, too friendly and boisterous of a man. No, Douglas Byrne is quite a jolly man with a loving family, and Peter would love nothing more than to see him crumble.

When he leaves the bridge after allowing sufficient time for a witch hunt, Peter goes back to his room to grab his toiletry bag, plucking something very special out and clipping it on the lapel of his jacket. He had nearly forgotten about the thing until he was preparing for this, but it is the tie clip that Elias had left in his hotel room. And what a _fitting_ item to have brought with him, making sure the vague eye shape is right side up just to make it a little easier for him. Tapping on the metal, he says, “I do hope you enjoy this, Elias.”

When that is settled, Peter finds what’s left of the crew (minus Ashley, poor man must be dead by now considering the bloodied state of the man who no doubt won the fight) surrounding Douglas in the common area. He was quite certain that by now, the man has been beaten up quite nicely, proven right by the awful condition he looks in. But, the moment he catches sight of Peter is when the furious recognition sets in.

 ** _“Lukas,”_** is spat out venomously as Peter parts the shaking seas of the crew.

“Not sure who _that_ is, my name is Aaron. Would you all like to see a magic trick?” He doesn't wait for a response before clapping his hands and engulfing the room in his fog. This is not a mass sacrifice, as Elias had said—that would go far too into the whole ritual territory, and his would be _much_ more grand than this. It takes only a bit more concentration than usual with so many people around, but these people are already halfway broken down from days of misery in the first place.

Quite almost _everyone_ in the room immediately starts to panic, backing away and trying to go for the door or hugging the walls, the sounds of scrambling feet muffled as his patron’s domain flickers in and out of consciousness. The door has not been opened yet, but the veil lifted. Squatting down in front of Douglas, he says, “You and your father-in-law’s company have been _very_ naughty.” 

_“Fuck you,”_ is angrily hissed at him in response. But the man already has his hands bound behind his back, looks proper roughed up too with a split lip and by the look of it, a black eye forming. Not that it would have much time to manifest on this physical plane of existence. “What have you done?”

“I think the question, Dougie, is what have _you_ done? You _know_ my uncle is not a man who likes his money flow sabotaged,” grabbing him by the hair and pulling him up to face him. 

“Going to the auction right under our noses and offloading your entire cargo was a thoughtless act, you had to have known we wouldn't like that.” Even squatting, Peter still towers over him from how hunched over he is. From pain or from being weak in general, he can't find it in himself to care. 

“You can go to _hell_ you rabid dog,” and this time Douglas actually does spit at him. It misses, but Peter gives him a pout for it. “What did you do to my crew?”

“You mean the PCP? _Brilliant_ if I do say so myself. Did you enjoy yourself too?”

“Wretched, vile, pig shit arse waste of a human being. I ought to have you thrown overboard,” ground out as the veins in his forehead bulge, the anger _palpable._ The fire in his eyes burns through Peter’s veins, but the look turns frightened once Peter makes the static rise up, cutting them off from the rest of the room. 

Peter hits him on the cheek a few times none too gently, a sadistic grin taking up a place on his face. The rest of the noise of the room fades away, scared whimpers and hushed exclamations turning to silence. The ocean is the only sound, gentle waves crashing as he calmly says, “You fucked around with the wrong people, Byrne. Now, that carries some…consequences.” Every word is concise and clear as if Peter has rehearsed this moment numerous times. “You never thought you were good enough for your wife, did you? You two went to the same university, right? She laughed at all of your jokes, and you two would study together. But Juliana Lawrence came from old money, and you were on scholarship.”

Gossip that he wasn't able to escape when flitting around at the mundane Society of Maritime Industries gatherings, and now it is coming up _extremely_ useful.

“She still let you in her bed, tried to keep you a secret from her father, but the poor thing got knocked up. Oh, her father was _ruthlessly_ mad at you, as was she. He arranged the marriage, though, since you had the social status of graduating from a prestigious university to justify it. He refused to have his daughter humiliated by having a child out of wedlock, nor would he allow her to terminate it.

“She _hated_ you after that. She could not stand you. Forced to marry you, and then have your child? It disgusted her. _You_ disgust her. Do you think she ever got back with her German lover—”

 **“Stop,”** Douglas pleads as he struggles against his bindings, but Peter hums a disapproving noise at him. “Stop this, I don't want to hear any more."

“Juliana’s father found you useful though for the past fifteen years, and eventually enough to let you captain his brand new ship. Enough to trust you to not fuck up your business transactions, but you couldn't even do that right. He will _hate_ you. Juliana will be _grateful_ you are dead. But _oh,”_ Peter drops his voice to a sentimental note, _“Maisie—”_

Douglas is openly crying now, and Peter can feel his patron drinking it in. In turn, it feels like a balm to his soul to drag each tear from him. He tries struggling again as he chokes on a breath, then says, “You keep her name out of your mouth.”

“Maisie will wonder what happened to her father, she will ask your wife why you abandoned her, and Juliana will take so. Much. Pleasure. In telling her that her father never loved her.”

That's the straw that breaks the camel’s back, so to speak, a wretched, filthy sob sounding off as Peter stands up and backs away, closing the little pocket of the Lonely that Peter leaves Douglas in. He stays out of sight, blending away from the room as the fog recedes, staying hidden as everyone left here comes back to awareness.

First there is a scream.

Then the _panic._

Swears, and exclamations, and _questions,_ and the _terror_ that comes when Peter’s voice echoes around the room as he asks, “Who else would like to volunteer?”

The intercom springs back to life as Peter uses his patron’s influence to take things up a notch. He chuckles, the sound of it distorted through the whole ship. And then he starts whistling, drawing out each note crisp and clear, a short tune that he remembers singing once with Mikaele Salesa after a long night of drinking about four years ago when he helped him transport some dangerous thing of Simon’s across the Atlantic. So very fittingly called _“Juliana.”_ [[listen]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZMSeWvxsFRY&t=23s)

People scatter, Peter broadcasting in the static as he walks around leisurely looking for another victim. Of course, he would be leaving some people alive to tell the tale and feel the fear, but spending the next week drifting in and out of rooms and snatching anyone who may be around at any time? It would be an absolute _pleasure._

When he’s had enough of whistling, he starts speaking again, leisurely strolling around the ship, “This is your new captain speaking again. Did you enjoy the show? I know I did. But it made me wonder, do any of you know what it's like to be an outcast? To be so cruelly ripped from comfort from the moment you are born and thrust into this unforgiving world without so much as a single person caring if you live or die?

“It makes you _stronger,_ to forget about every person who has ever helped you. Your attachments to your families and friends are a ruse. They are weights on your very _soul,_ clawing for your attention. And for what? So they can break your heart and disappoint you? So you can build up ideas about them in your head about what they are _truly_ like, only to fall so woefully short that you blame them for your own misinformation? 

“How well do you know your loved ones? How much of yourself do you give to them? It’s too much. You say you are unguarded with the people you love, but do they know what makes you tick? Or do they know your deepest, darkest desires and secrets? You hold so much shame in your hearts and souls for what you all truly are.” Taking a breath finally, Peter puts on a mocking little voice for his imagination of the crew, “But Aaron? What am I?”

The speakers crackle, and instead of answering, he starts to whistle again. A different tune, distorted and looping and not uniformly timed over every speaker on the ship. Almost like multiple, different people are whistling along with him. And for fun he peppers in Douglas sobbing his heart out for his wife and child, trapped where nobody can see him. 

_“A monster,”_ Peter says, dramatically and loudly cutting himself off as he stops his walk, suddenly. Along the way he had picked up a water bottle and filled it with the ship’s contaminated water, and now that he has stopped in front of someone cowering between shipping containers, he appears back out of his patron’s gracious hiding place between planes and says to him, _“You_ are a monster, and I _forgive_ you. Our God forgives us, and He asks you to accept him. Do you want to be saved? Drink this.”

The man nods his head, and does as he is told. Out of desperation, or obedience, or _what,_ Peter doesn't care to find out. It is enough to see him walking around screaming at his hallucinations.

He terrorizes the crew all the same into the early hours of the morning before calling it a night and retiring to his bedroom. For the following four nights, adrift at sea, he does the same, broadcasting Douglas’ wailing and despair out over the speakers and delivering his compassionless, forsaken sermons. Six more of the crew of 25 end up in the Lonely after a stern talking to by Peter. He loses one to suicide over the side of the ship, and two others to a _real_ riot. The delirious, dehydrated people who have not gone feverish and nearly unresponsive tear the ship apart trying to find him. By then, Peter has changed locations a few times, always able to hide himself before he can be found.

The anger turns to terror, back to anger, and back to mind-numbing anxiety again. He becomes a ghost, effectively. One man who seemed to have a penchant for squabbling with another ends up taking a fire axe to his skull, then killing another who interrupted his cathartic murder experience. 

All in all, Peter feels like he could walk on _air._ The terror of dying out on the open ocean may be more suited to Fairchild, but it hits a note in Peter that is _much_ appreciated. His skin feels clearer, and it puts a spring in Peter’s step that he hasn't felt since his last multi-person fear event near a decade ago. 

In the end, there was one person who escaped relatively unscathed. A lone engineer who took it upon herself to ignore all of this nonsense and fix whatever Peter had done in the engine room and at the control panel. She had completely avoided drinking the water by slogging down alcohol instead, enough to keep her going and not enough to _really_ get her drunk, it would seem. 

Smart of her, keeping to herself and not showing any apprehension. Single-handedly, she got them back on course to Pointe-Noir, where Peter was able to silently stalk off the boat as the chaos absolutely _erupted_ from port officials. No longer his problem, and all traces of himself have either cleaned up or tossed overboard as they had gotten closer to their destination. And now, he has an escape to arrange.

Elias is _so_ very glad that Peter chose to bring this drama to a climax on a Sunday. He'd been considering taking the Monday off to avoid the possible situation of being trapped in his office and having to drop everything to focus his full attention elsewhere. Part of concealing his identity as the Watcher to his employees was _not_ visibly zoning out all day long—and to those who didn't have that in mind as a possibility, it was still very medically suspicious. Wouldn't want to project the image of incompetence, after all.

Peter monologues like he was born to do it, it turns out. His speech is fit to send shivers up Elias' spine even thousands of miles away. He Watches the reactions of the crew, jumping between viewpoints, and he listens. Sees the terror and the fury and the _despair,_ and the speech is hitting on so many different flavours of fear that it blends into the most delectable cocktail. Peter is spoiling him, he really is.

Him putting the tie pin on is quaint in the best of all possible ways. Elias has his front-row seat to the emotional annihilation of Captain Douglas Byrne, there in the Lonely haze where he would not normally be able to follow. He has his guide in this place and poor doomed Byrne has his psychopomp. Elias knew that he was onto something when he'd given Peter the _Ferryman_ moniker.

Then Byrne is gone and _true_ chaos descends. There's the background whine of static shot through with the whistling cheery tune. Elias knows the upbeat melody is going to be stuck in his head for a long time while he watches Peter spin this out and savour it.

Elias revels in it too, in his own observant way. Over days he graces the depraved spectacle of the _New Horizon_ with his oppressive, baleful attention. The crew probably thinks the murderous ghost is watching them, but that would be a lesser evil than their true reality. They are trapped, alone, and know that they are doomed. But there is also an observer who _could_ rescue them at any time, being plead to whenever they do not plead to holy powers, who is doing absolutely nothing to intervene. They are suffering _for_ Elias' amusement and Peter's delight and the hungers of the Eye and the Lonely both.

But, all good indulgences must come to an end, and Elias is there to Watch Peter slip off the ship and into the intended destination city. From a shopfront advertisement, intermittently interrupted by passers-by doing their morning errands, Elias sees Peter pause and consider where next to go. So he gives him a call and is thankful for the fact that Peter had the good sense to keep his mobile charged.

"Well _done,_ Captain." Elias is beaming and the enthusiasm carries into his voice. "A marvelous performance, truly. I'd applaud, but I'm afraid I've got my hands full."

Peter is uncharacteristically joyful, even being on the street with people around. It’s easy to fade into the background noise, finding a nice alleyway between buildings to lean against the wall of when his mobile starts ringing. Cursed thing, but he picks it up nonetheless and grins when he hears Elias’ voice. “I’m almost afraid to ask _what_ they are full of. I trust you had a _good_ time though? I know I did.”

It feels sickeningly like foreplay to be praised by Elias, but Peter is caught up in it, happy in how things had turned out. His uncle would be pleased and would get off his back for a while, and Peter could go on with his life undisturbed soon.

"The phone and a _pen,_ you terrible man. Some people are at work right now," Elias shoots back. It's entertained, not snippy. "You do ask that a lot, and I'm sad to admit that the answer is consistently a 'yes.'"

Elias drums the pen against the notepad, not thinking anything of his restlessness. "I see you've made it back to port. Would you like me to book you a flight back?"

“Convenient excuses,” Peter says with a chuckle. But, yes, he is quite tired already of being here, especially with how hot the weather is even during the spring months. “You would do that for me? Mr. Bouchard, I would be quite pleased with that.” Hearing that Elias is apparently _often_ having _fun_ is a regrettably welcome admission. Still, being on the phone is beginning to give him hives, and the sooner he is off of it, the sooner he can get back to England. “The airport is less than twenty minutes away by cab, so the soonest one possible would be _much_ appreciated.”

"All right. Does the passport you're going to be using have your actual name, or a different one?" Elias honestly doesn't mind being Peter's travel agent. Anything he does to get this man further in his debt is welcome, and Elias is going to be billing Solus Shipping for several other expenses already. Besides, Peter being in port instead of stalled at sea is the _much_ easier scenario to handle—if he'd gotten himself stuck without power, Elias had Harriet Fairchild on standby to figure out his coordinates. It'd be a mess to get local rescue authorities involved, questions would be asked, and this saved him from having to bother the Fairchilds. This is better all around. "And do you have a hotel preference? I'd like to properly debrief with you before you go sailing off again."

Peter can imagine Elias leaning back in his chair, one knee crossed over the other as he taps his pen against a piece of paper, waiting for the answers to his questions. Voice cool, calm, and incredibly collected as he speaks to him in case an employee walks by. Business as usual, except he _knows_ their business will not be so casual. Humming in thought, he says, “I have no preference, though I imagine I will be paying for it. Then I suppose whatever you fancy is quite enough for me.” As long as it is expensive enough that nobody bothers them? Peter is just fine with that.

“As for my passport, the name on it is Keegan Parry.” He rattles off the address associated with it, a post office box in Kent close by the family residence. Belatedly, he realizes he could have just used the name on his passport when he terrorized the crewmembers of the ship instead of panicking and picking the worst possible combination of names he could have used. Bygones, no matter.

Elias dutifully takes the information down, his composure broken only by a wince when he hears the name. "You do _not_ look like a Keegan. Stick with Aaron." He had to stop watching Peter from across the street to check his spelling and make sure that it's legible. Once he's satisfied, he doesn't bother going back to it and keeps his eyes to himself. "I suggest that you start making your way towards the airport. I'll call you back as soon as everything's arranged."

“Will do,” Peter says as he hangs up, laughing after the fact that his chosen fake name for his fake passport is so ill-fitting according to Elias. But he follows his instructions, hailing a cab and heading to the airport. The drive is short, and the sound of sirens speeding toward port is like music to his ears. Police, ambulances and the like. He is glad that Elias is taking care of the ticket part, eager to walk up to the desk to pick his ticket up so he can be done with this place. Once he is at the airport, he heads inside and waits for his phone call.

About an hour later, Elias does call him back to let him know about the arrangements made. 2:15 pm departure time for a 9:30 am arrival to Gatwick. 'Keegan Parry' has a booking for the Holloway Resort, which is most certainly a money-laundering front, but it _is_ nice in addition to being the sort of place where the police will not come knocking at reports of any strange phenomena. Rather like the Magnus Institute in that way, except the Institute isn't exactly suitable for the sort of entertaining Elias would like to do. Starting with the promise that he'll bring something by for lunch tomorrow.

Elias keeps the conversation brief and informative, citing that he has a lot of other matters to attend to today and that they'll have plenty of time to speak in person tomorrow. After that it's an afternoon of letting Mrs. Fairchild know that her services will not be necessary but that Elias appreciates her time, and getting in touch with the Pointe-Noire media outlets about his interest in the _strange_ occurrence at the port earlier and just how appreciative and financially generous his organization would be if they were to collect copies of any broadcasts or news articles reporting on the incident to send his way. It's not often that the Magnus Institute gets to be a part of events this significant, and Elias is most certainly _not_ going to be leaving the follow-up on this case to the Archives.

There is something to be said about walking up to the ticket counter of the airport and picking up his boarding pass without having to put in nearly any effort. The woman is pleasant and helpful, and Peter is soon on his way to his gate after a quick pass through security. His duffel bag goes onto the conveyor, he walks through the stand up metal detector, and onward he goes. There is enough time for a quick cigarette before he boards his plane, sitting at the airport bar with a very aptly named Widow Maker cocktail to wash it down. His seat is first class, a nice and _very_ welcome touch on such short notice. 

Soon enough he is in the sky with another drink in his hand, ruminating on how the last time he had been on a plane had been _far_ less pleasant. But he is reminded of his conversation with Simon, about how Elias would serve to be more surprising than he would seem. So far, Peter has seen that predilection come true, almost annoyingly so. The prim and proper voice over the phone again in the terminal only reinforced that. He has his hotel reservations, and a promise of _lunch._ How… deceptively quaint to anyone that may have been listening in.

Left alone in his thoughts for so long, he relives the experience of causing untold mayhem, almost eager to hear the other side of the story—to see what Elias will dig up on his end to put into his affidavit, as it were. It still begs the question of why go to all the trouble, of what Bouchard could _possibly_ want out of this. Peter can see the dangerous territory on the horizon, of this cycle of debt he keeps getting thrown into with Elias. It would be one thing to have a business partnership, it would be _another_ to have a sexual favour owed, and yet another to have mixed the two, but this is different. Peter can feel it down to his bones, cursing Elias in his head for being a constant nuisance in his thoughts.

Their talk of dangerous men, about how neither of them really knew what they were getting into with the other, it plagues him. Having to suffer through having his eyes physically borrowed at points is distressing enough as it is, but to have Elias get so close to truths about himself that Peter does _not_ want to be acknowledged or _seen_ and exploit it? It is deeply embarrassing and shameful at worst and enraging at best. Their last meeting had been a chaste affair if only because business truly is more important than pleasure, but part of Peter can't help but be apprehensive about whatever this next meeting may entail. So rarely does Peter return to any one person’s bed that he might as well say it has never happened at all.

The racket of the engines and the chatter of people around him means Peter is stuck with himself for far too long. Even during the nighttime hours where most people are asleep, he can't find it in himself to catch even a wink of sleep. By the time he lands at Gatwick just before 9:30, Peter nearly psychs himself out going to the hotel entirely. If not for how weary he is, he would have just gone on home to take his rest before reporting back to his uncle about his success. 

Catching a cab, he heads to The Holloway Resort, checking in with his false passport and heading up to the room. A good thing too, because he is finally able to take a _proper_ shower and wash the stink of weeks at sea off of himself. And if he nods off after that with the curtains drawn closed, that is between himself and the pillow.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The _New Horizon_ has absolutely nothing to do with the new Animal Crossing game. We picked the name before the game came out and we swear it's a coincidence.
> 
> Also a (completely unintentional) coincidence: shit gets real on the ship on April 20th. 4/20 haze it.
> 
> what up it's jen, you can find me on tumblr @jennyloggins, and on twitter at both @somegarbageisok on main and @slimejen for tma/video game posting.
> 
> Leto can be found on tumblr @auto-didact (general) and @divorcecravat (TMA).
> 
> **Content warnings:**  
>  Dehydration, emotional abuse, exhibitionism, hallucinations, heavy drug use, mass murder, psychological torture, psychosis, self-harm, suicide, urinary incontinence, vomiting, and voyeurism.  
> Mentions of cannibalism and homophobia.
> 
> This chapter gets, _uhhhh,_ intense. If you're not comfortable reading this type of content but would still like to know what happened, I'd recommend picking up from here and reading through the next chapter instead, which is presented as a more canon-typical statement. [return to top]


	5. May Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Elias Bouchard, regarding the captain and crew of the New Horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click to view content warnings.
> 
> There is a podfic of the statement portion of this chapter, recorded by Leto. 
> 
> Click to skip to the statement.

[Download](https://www.dropbox.com/s/0digzl2orc1nezy/May%20Day.wav?dl=0)

* * *

  


Elias is glad that he has the distraction of actual things to do around the office to keep him from being preoccupied with the thought of going home. He keeps it full of employee meetings he'd been delaying in case anything else notable aboard the _New Horizon_ happened. Social things to save his intellect for later in the evening. Even so, it's a rather long day.

From the time he arrives to his flat until sundown, Elias buries himself in his notes and maps of the _New Horizon._ Dinner, too, is spent looking over them. He edits and collates and drinks a lot of coffee to aid him in remembering. Everything he's done up to this point has been the research phase, and tonight it's time to write a composition.

Elias prepares the space in his study. He drapes a clean sheet over his comfortable office chair and arranges items on the cleared-off desk. Standard Magnus Institute statement forms are a given. The writing pad, pen, and inkwell skew towards old-fashioned but are also necessary. And, one supposes, the pair of tapers in their silver candlesticks are not _too_ out of place. An aesthetic choice, perhaps.

Then come the curious things. The charcoal and the matches and the jar of dried herbs. The elaborate brass incense burner (thoroughly cleaned and polished a couple of days ago in preparation) is both lavish and unnerving in its decoration, as much a thing of multi-faceted vision as it resembles a coronet. It is the oldest of the items on the table—Elias had it made for him the first time he was this age, audacious and yet unproven in devotion to his patron. Elias arranges a half-dozen small glass jars on the table next, all of various makes and sizes; the one of water goes opposite the inkwell, and the other five are arranged in an arc in front of the candles and the burner. He turns them to regard them and they regard him back. Blue, brown, brown, blue, hazel.

Elias hadn't been bluffing when he said he kept the eyes. (Well, half of them. The companion set is elsewhere.)

To ensure that he will not be disturbed, Elias brings Piper's cat bed and a couple of toys into the guest bath where the litter box is, gives her some brief scratches and pets while he's carrying her there, and locks her in. He gets the charcoal lit to bring it up to temperature. Then Elias brushes his teeth and showers, afterwards rinsing his face and his hands with a bowl of saltwater and drying off with a fresh towel. He does not dress again. Because what use is there to concealing yourself to an entity who sees you, always, and knows your form better than you do, inhabiting it?

Elias closes the door to the study and sits in the covered chair and lights the pair of candles. He's relaxed and receptive as he spoons dried mugwort over the charcoal and inhales herbal smoke.

Jonah Magnus can vividly recall the day he put the jar of water that he's now holding into the ritual coffer because he was _not_ calm back then. He was irate and exhausted in his soul, and he slept for a day and a night once he closed the lid on it.

Taking a new host has not once been an elegant process. The enucleation was gory, certainly, and there was the matter of lingering pain while the body adjusted to the transplant. But the truly messy part was the incompleteness of it. Elias Bouchard had always been a _nuisance_ around the office and Jonah Magnus would not stand for his continued existence in his head.

So he'd done what he'd done with every other host and learned what made them up; what was core to their identity; all their joy and trauma and hopes and dreams and grief and love and loathing and insecurity and pride. Jonah learned _everything_ about Elias Bouchard. And then he cut it down.

It had taken _days._ Jonah had flayed Elias Bouchard open before the Eye of his god. Jonah was vicious and ravenous, and every scrap of horror he consumed fuelled his desire to _unmake_ him. And in that shared body of torturer and victim both, he'd screamed and sobbed and cried an _awful_ lot. Jonah had just made sure he did it in a bowl for collection purposes.

The new Elias anoints his eyelids and the pen nib with the last remnants of the old one's agony. He smiles at the catharsis of the memory and at the tickle of interested static across his shoulderblades and creeping up the back of his neck. Elias fills the pen and speaks.

"You who watch and listen and observe all. You who see and know every terror in the uncaring universe. You who behold and devour cruelty and grief and anguish.

"Curator of fear, I have a tale for you."

It fills his chest, all of it and all at once, the concentrated anxiety and panic and revulsion and desperation and hopelessness felt by every single person in the story. Jonah Magnus cannot feel anything but pride.

And he writes.

  


* * *

  


Statement of Elias Bouchard, regarding the captain and crew of the New Horizon. Written April 29th, 1997.

  


The New Horizon is a young vessel. Fresh and bold and sky blue with a crimson underbelly. She has twenty-six caretakers, Captain Douglas Byrne included. All of them have served aboard her from the day that she first touched the ocean.

She leaves the port with twenty-seven.

The rain sings that night. A sailor hears its song and sees its shadow and gets knocked off balance by a spectre. He dismisses it. The rain and groaning metal often make strange music. It is easy to believe that the roiling ocean and the pitching floor are the things that caused his misstep.

He is wrong, of course. Already, the stowaway does his work with a knife scratching shapes into walls and doors and shipping containers. Through friendly conversation, he puts ghosts into the mind of another sailor. The stowaway has always worked here.

There is something wrong with the water tank. There has been since the beginning. It makes the drinkers clumsy and numb to their surroundings. The vomiting isn't seasickness. Not all of the things in their vision are real.

A sailor smokes out on the deck. He is approached by a stranger who has always worked here. The stranger asks about his family, but he already knows the names of his wife and children. The sailor will not go home to them again. The Ferryman of the New Horizon brings him to a quiet and a solitary shore.

Another sailor claws red lines into his arms and does not recognize the fluid as beading blood. He is told, in detail, about how he will not be missed.

Yet another is delirious with fever. It cooks her from the inside out, and she wants to reach in and pull the sunspot free. She cannot, but she is so very grateful for a cool hand across her brow.

In the cargo bay, the ghost-fearing sailor is chased around the colourful maze by one. The ship becomes a space of echoing crashes and humming white noise. He comes to fear the sound of footsteps on metal stairs. He will never again be able to do dishes without the clanging of pots and pans reminding him of this.

There are a demon and a doctor aboard the ship. For the doctor, holy vengeance is more important than his oath, and he tears into the demon with his teeth to rend and to devour. They brawl together in the early morning, each spitting insults at the other. The doctor wins. He forgets his oath again and consumes pieces of his hallucination as he lays there, breathing.

An announcement goes out. There is something wrong with the water tank. There has been since the beginning. The Captain gives orders for an emergency stop, but the ship is fated to complete its journey—though not at the expected time. The Ferryman cripples the machines in the engine room, doing his intended work. The communication systems meet a similar fate as the Ferryman shatters the controls under the weight of a fire extinguisher. There will be no mayday sent. No rescuers will come to save them.

A storm tackles the New Horizon with its waves, and she lurches with every impact. The wind howls. The rain is ever-present. And over all of that tumultuous weather, another announcement is made.

There is a new Captain aboard the ship. He has always wanted to captain a boat this frighteningly large. He exposes the old Captain's crimes to the crew, for he knows the man's black market dealings. The new Captain accuses the old one of poisoning them, though he is responsible for that himself. The Ferryman wants to see the old Captain brought to heel. The crew deserves a mutiny. They get one.

A damp steel floor and pain in his broken body become the old Captain's new and best companions. His crew have turned on him. They have tied his arms and beaten him bloody but they will not let him die. He will not have the courtesy of a witness to hear his final words. He will die forsaken by his crew and by every human being alive. But he does not know this yet.

A shroud of mist and fog fills the room. The Ferryman graces the scene with his dire, giddy presence. The Captain thinks he recognizes him for what he is—just a man; a rival. He is only half-correct. The Ferryman comes from a family tradition; a line of solitary guides. Their god is a place, pristine and untrodden. It is virgin snow and smooth sands and unraked fallen leaves. It is longing incarnate. It is the shining light where you are not and you can never be again. It is time-worn gravestones and bone bleached white.

The Ferryman's god is a hollow, hungry thing. His service grants him sorceries, and he shows the room his tricks.

For the Captain, he weaves a story of how the sickness started and of why he is being punished. The Captain is told unseemly things about his dear wife, who has not loved him since the day her fate was lashed to his by honour and by obligation. How she loathed not the foreign thing growing inside of her but the now-husband who had put it there. She will not miss him when he is gone. She will tell her daughter that they are much better off without him, and they will celebrate his loss.

The Captain knows that all of this is true. He mourns, alone, in that hollow, hungry place. Both god and servant feast upon his misery and will until he has no more to give.

Song fills the ship, a cheery sailor's tune that bears the name of the Captain's wife who will hear of her husband's passing with similar joy. The Ferryman is a whistle and a prophet. He has many things to say about the nature of connections and how they are not heartbreak yet. About how abandonment is strength. Those who do believe him cower. Those who don't believe him run.

The engineer raids the kitchen early on for all the bottled drinks that she can find. The engine room is loud and she cannot hear the screams. She has to flee, once. There are footsteps on the stair and she climbs the ladders out. She is terrified to stay among the bloodstains and the sobbing up on deck, but her door still locks and she barricades herself inside overnight. She does not sleep. She wishes she could drink the water. It made her feel alert.

Others drink the tainted water in earnest. It makes them feel invincible. They arm themselves with tools, with kitchen knives and crowbars, and they go hunting. There is poison in them and the Ferryman laughs. He understands, of course. Survival instinct is a powerful thing. But he will not be found, and he picks the party off one by one.

The leader of the hunting party is the loudest voice in the room wherever he goes. He hears a softer one murmuring to him about the foundation of all of his friendships. He is a bully, it says, and he always has been. They are intimidated by him. His friends don't want to share his company—they are simply too afraid to tell him no. The voice calls him entitled and self-centred for days. He listens and grows to distrust his companions. He agrees with the voice when he is told he doesn't need them.

His companions agree: they do not need him, and do not need his faulty leadership. But he is stronger and swifter than they—too full of invigorating drugs. He answers the rebellion by kicking in ribs with steel-toed boots and burying the point of a crowbar into the neck of a man with a newfound taste for mutiny.

The hunter's parents told her what a clever girl she was. How she was going to do something great for the world, one day. She didn't need the distraction of friends when she had her studies and her parents' rare and nourishing approval. Secondary was easy but university smacked her reeling; too many people, not enough structure, and unclear expectations. It was a doomed endeavour from the start. And her parents, they tried to be supportive after she crashed and burned. She knew that their love was always conditional. She had failed them. But the hunter doesn't need to live with that for long.

Another hunter remembers highways, endless stretches of them. The sunlight glinting off the other traffic was too bright, no matter how dark the sunglasses or how low the visor of his cap. Nighttime trips were better. Chilly and quiet. All his talking was transactional, confined to petrol stations and food service. Those were good days, until he lost his license. But sea shipping isn't all that different. He can go back to that, the Ferryman tells him, and be free of all of this. He knows a place where he can feel the cool night breeze upon his face and be one with the open road, forever. He goes willingly.

The hunter's home was nearly always empty. His father travelled and his mother worked many jobs to keep the family afloat. He cooked, and cleaned, and when he was old enough he was made to contribute too. The dust piled up in corners and the smell of takeout was ever-present. He didn't understand why he was doing this. Why his years of unthanked effort were spent still serving strangers. So he made selfishness his strength and took to the sea. In another life, he'd have made a fine member of the Ferryman's crew, but that isn't what fate has decided for him.

The leader, his hunting party disbanded, gets a proper talking-to. The mist tells him that he was a fool to think he could save anyone. There are greater forces at work here, beyond human malice and limited human understanding. A brute like him could never stand a chance. The former leader calls the Ferryman a coward. He brandishes his weapon and demands a fair confrontation. There is a chuckle in his ear just before the Ferryman kicks him square in his back and into the waiting mouth of his god. This was never going to be fair.

The broiling sailor cooks inside her skin. She thirsts. She is a living sunburn, recoiling from accidental touch. Her tongue is the coarseness of sand and she drinks, and drinks, despite the warnings. She sees things that are not there, and things that are there, and she has a staring contest with a carving of an eye upon a railing. The metal is blessedly cold against her burning forehead. She blinks first.

The doctor finds her there, his shirt still marked with demon blood. He asks her what she's doing. 'Watching,' she says. 'There is someone watching us.' With a rust-caked fingernail, she taps the eye. It chimes and echoes in the railing's hollow.

'God is always watching,' the doctor responds.

The fevered sailor laughs, and it's wild, and it's deranged, and it's utterly, mournfully broken. 'No,' she says. 'God wouldn't let this happen.'

The doctor doesn't want to believe her, but in time, he does. And in time, the fevered sailor leaves her sweat-soaked clothes behind and goes for a refreshing swim.

Two of the crew make a tomb of their quarters, mummifying themselves alive. They ignore the crashing and the sobbing going on outside. Their ears are only for the wails of metal on metal and the quiet tears—water they should not be wasting. Their urine is a sick and cloudy brown but they have no choice but to drink it. At the end, their minds grow sluggish and their muscles seize. Both of them die sleeping.

The sailor had gone to camp, back when he was young. The stillness of the woods was preferable to the rowdy company of boys and their counsellors. More than once, he snuck out under night's cover to set a kayak into water and go paddling by moonlight. Frogs and fish made better companions than his peers did. They didn't judge him for his oddities. They didn't expect eye contact when he quietly spoke to them. It was so peaceful out there; so hushed and holy that the wonder of it made him want to cry. He often did. He certainly is now, hiding where he can hear the patter of the rain on the roof. A cornered animal, curled up small and tense. 

The Ferryman knows and sees a kindred spirit in him, for he too appreciates the tranquillity of unspoiled nature. He sails to be closer to it, and he knows this man does too. They sit together and they do not speak. The Ferryman believes it a mercy to take him off the ship. It probably is.

The doctor does not forget what the broiling sailor told him. He remembers her wise paranoia. Their tormentor walks among them. He is the whistle in the air and the footsteps where there should be none. He deserves an axe in his skull for all he's done. So when he next spots a shadow and hears the intercom crackle in concert, he cracks it across the lambdoid suture and takes its cerebellum off. The very mortal man dies blind and convulsing on the ground.

His very alive companion tries to take away his axe; to pitch it into the darkness of the cargo hold. They struggle, but in the end they are thrown down there themself, dashed upon the unyielding metal containers on their descent. Blood bubbles up from where it pours into their perforated stomach. Their breath is short but they still choke out prayers. For seventy-six minutes, they pray for survival. They pray for the safety of their parents. They pray for vengeance upon the man who did this to them, and they damn the Captain, and they damn the ghost aboard. Their prayers go unanswered but not unheard.

It is an isolating thing, to be a refugee. A sailor takes refuge in the galley, armed to the teeth with kitchen knives. These are not startling gunshots splitting open the air, but the terror of this place sends their mind straight back to their home soil. They shake, and they do not sleep. They eat instant coffee by the handful to stay alert. The Ferryman knows better than to go inside, and so, he sits in the mess hall to have a chat with them through the barricaded door. He clucks his tongue and tells the refugee that cowering like this is no way to live at all. The refugee knows better than to respond. Over days, the Ferryman returns to that same seat, trying to coax them out and dining on their fright. When it has simmered low and they have given up, the Ferryman forces his way into the room and taps them on the shoulder to rouse them from their stupor. His smile does not reach his eyes. He thanks them for being such a good sport about it and asks if they would like to go home. They do. It's changed in their time away. There are no familiar faces to recognize.

The ghost-fearing sailor finds the engineer's post and makes a home there among the supplies and the near-intolerable noise. She finds him with his hands over his ears, talking about the crashing and the space. She talks him down and makes him drink. He sleeps. For days, he mostly sleeps.

The engineer keeps vigil. She survives on juice to keep her on her feet and vodka to keep the terror down. Hour by hour she undoes the damage that the Ferryman has caused. The ghost-fearing sailor ventures out to get them weapons once—a kitchen knife and crowbar, both taken from corpses. They barricade themselves inside. Late one night, the engineer ventures up to plot a course for Pointe-Noire—their intended destination. The silence is as untrustworthy as the screaming. Her time is split between the engine room and navigation. The Ferryman comes in once to make an announcement, and she spends those terrifying minutes cowering inside a storage room adjacent. The engineer hears footsteps pause and pass on the other side of the doorway. He knows.

But he leaves, and with him leaves the tension in the engineer's lungs. A crash comes from an adjoining wall and her scream would be audible were her hands not quick enough to muffle it. The Ferryman, he laughs, and says something that she cannot hear.

When at last the engineer leaves her hiding place, the course has not been changed. And when she ventures back down ladders to the startled ghost-fearing sailor, she notices no further sabotage. Incredulous, she laughs. Embraces her companion and embraces the control panel too.

Against all odds, the New Horizon makes it back to port. She is desecrated and bold and sky blue with dried crimson painted on her. A riot of activity welcomes her in. Port officials shout above the emergency sirens making music in the early morning.

The jaunty Ferryman is the first to disembark. His heart is light and his task is well and thoroughly complete. Clandestinely, he leaves the ship and port behind. He isn't really much of one for noisy celebrations.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elias can have little an occultism. as a treat.
> 
> Leto can be found on tumblr @auto-didact (general) and @divorcecravat (TMA).
> 
> **Content warnings:**  
>  Cannibalism, consumption of bodily fluids, dehydration, emotional abuse, eye horror, graphic descriptions of death, hallucinations, heavy drug use, mass murder, minor character death, psychological torture, psychosis, PTSD, self-harm, suicide, vomiting. [return to top]


	6. Whiskey Sour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you know what happens," Elias says, "when you watch and listen to so much suffering? You start to _wonder_ about what it's like to be in their place."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click to view content warnings.

Elias sleeps deeply and well that night, though it is hardly dreamless. The sound of walking the floors and stairs of the _New Horizon_ is so familiar that it fools his mind into believing that he's set foot on it before. He Knows this space. He has never before been out to sea like this in his life, but he feels the mist and smells the salt air as the sailors do. His clothes are heavy with the omnipresent damp and his mouth and tongue are so, so _dry._

Time is strange, in that dreaming world. Elias walks and watches what he has seen before and his mind fills in the gaps for him. He finds himself stepping in beat to the whistling song. People take notice but they do not interact with him, for they are much more concerned with their own private worlds of horror.

Elias looks in on the scenes that Peter Lukas was not privy to. The sailors who had the good sense to lock themselves in their cabins until dehydration laid them out comatose and dying. The two in the engine room, self-medicating with alcohol to keep it together. Elias sits with them and is ignored and none of them can hear the wailing or the yelling over the sound of the ship running as intended. For a while, he stays and listens to them scheme for their own survival. Elias has listened to a lot of that before.

He returns to the deck to light one of the cigarettes taken from a condemned man. He looks up. And above, darkening the sky, the omnipresent Eye reflects a cataract haze.

It's an interesting dream, all told. Elias wouldn't mind having it again, he thinks when he awakens.

In his idle spying on Peter to make sure his journey was going smoothly (and was hardly noticeable if Peter was getting sightly more stares than usual from the people around him), Elias hadn't once seen him sleeping. He very clearly needs to, as Elias had observed over the ship's voyage. Peter must simply be a bit keyed up. And Elias can sympathize with not being able to sleep in airports. A late lunch, then.

Elias goes to work as usual that morning. The weather's decent but he drives. It's business as usual—administration duties, making photocopies, and making sure that the receptionist knows he has an appointment with Captain Lukas out of the office and that he won't be back for the rest of the day. Come two o'clock he's at the Holloway Resort and knocking on the door to Peter's room with a duffel bag in one hand and a takeout bag in the other.

Peter is woken up from his sleep quite suddenly by a firm knocking on the door. For a moment, he forgets where he is, the exhaustion of being awake for so long gentler than usual considering the meal he had partaken in over the past week. He almost ignores it before opening his eyes and seeing the unfamiliar surroundings of the hotel room. Breathing deeply, he lets out a slow breath before finding the switch to the lamp and turning it on, sitting up with a groan. Having sat so long on an airplane had made him stiff, and he stretches with a few soft popping noises before standing up. He is quite indecent in only a pair of briefs, but at this point he knows he has nothing to hide from Elias anyway, so he doesn't find anything else to put on. 

There is another, more insistent knock on the door, Peter yawning as he says, “Hold your horses, I’m coming.” He still takes a glance through the peephole to make sure it is really him, opening the door on his confirmation. Voice still thick with sleep, he gives him a once over and steps aside to let him in. “What a pleasant surprise, Mr. Bouchard, please make yourself at home.” The juxtaposition of one hair not being out of place on Elias’ head versus Peter being entirely unkempt is not lost on him. When the door is closed and locked, he heads first into the bathroom to relieve himself and wipe the sleep from his eyes so he's not entirely bedraggled.

Elias has to admit that he's slightly caught off guard, but it was fair for Peter to be comfortable with this when he was acclimatized to Elias seeing him at this level of undress for over a week. He recovers well enough to smile and appreciatively rake his gaze up and down his form. "Well. Suppose it's still a debriefing if that's the only thing you're wearing."

He makes himself at home by unpacking a proper pair of wine glasses and getting drinks and lunch on the little bistro table. In between arranging things he undresses to a more comfortable level, draping the jacket and waistcoat over the back of his dining chair and fastidiously rolling up his shirtsleeves. There is real cutlery but the napkins are paper and the food stays in its takeout containers. Wouldn't want to get _too_ formal.

Lunch is veal tortellini in a rosé sauce, served alongside a Caprese salad. Elias had picked it up on the way over but the Burgundy Pinot Noir is from home. Same goes for the unopened bottle of rye, which he leaves on the same table as the hotel coffeemaker for the moment. "That's for you," he says by way of explanation. "Figured you wouldn't be taking any of your liquor on the plane."

Peter is… quite foolishly nearly overcome by the urge to kiss Elias once he's out of the bathroom, successfully avoiding it by instead touching his fingers to Elias’ shoulder gently as he goes to the curtains to open them. If only because it seems appropriate to have some better lighting for such a nice gesture as lunch. "Seems like I’m underdressed and you're overdressed, not that I’m complaining." He can imagine that every bit of this is a calculated move, and while Peter is not unappreciative, the finer details go quite over his head he is sure. 

Taking his seat across from Elias, Peter looks across to the liquor and says, “All for me? Now you _are_ spoiling me, I am almost afraid to ask why I have gotten so thoroughly in your good graces.” Elias has already gone to the trouble of uncorking the wine, but Peter reaches for his glass first to pour it, gingerly placing it down before grabbing his own and pouring for himself. 

What a pair they must make right now, sitting like this after such a tragic event—a thought that he places aside while he raises his glass. “But I do suppose a toast is in order—I could have never thought of such a plan and executed it on my own. So, thank you.” A genuine expression of thanks that not many people had ever received from him.

"What, can't a man be generous when he wants to celebrate a job well done?" While Peter is pouring the wine, Elias gets out a black presentation folder, plain except for one of the Magnus Institute's foil sticker seals on the front. He sets it down next to the rye and sits at the table properly. "You've given me over a week straight of live melodrama when I could have been watching television. You're _very_ good at monologues, by the way."

Elias picks up and tips his glass towards Peter, acknowledging his talent. _"You're_ making the toast—I'm rather burnt out on being poetic."

“Now I have to make the toast? I haven't heard your voice properly in over a month, but you've heard so much of mine.” He bites back a comment about him being selfish, because Peter isn't quite sure what that will accomplish here, but he _does_ follow up with, “Or maybe you just like hearing the sound of my voice? You must if you prefer me to television.”

Sighing quietly, Peter thinks about his words for once, not feeling quite so poetic either, but giving it his best try. “Alright then, I suppose we shall toast to our rather fortuitous partnership. You got what you wanted, I _too_ got what I wanted, and both of our patrons are magnificently glutted on such a grandiose display of a lesson so thoroughly taught and frighteningly learned. To us.” Holding his glass out toward Elias, he waits for the clink.

"To us," Elias echoes, and toasts to it. "And in memory of the Forsaken and the Watched, of course." May their lives and suffering amount to _something,_ Elias mentally adds as he takes the first sip. That's an awfully good toast, he has to admit.

Elias loosens and loses the tie, because he likes this one and given what had happened during their last encounter he doesn't want to risk its ruin. "I'd offer to read the statement aloud for you, if you're so eager to hear me speak again. But I'm afraid that might push the mood of the room in an... unfortunate direction." Smirking, he spears a piece of mozzarella and a round of tomato on the end of his fork. "While _I_ don't mind having a preternatural audience, I doubt the same is true for you. Writing it was an experience." Elias isn't sure whether the discomfort of the shirt collar against the back of his neck is mundane irritation or a sign of uncanny interest. Difficult to tell, sometimes.

Taking his sip, the rich tone of the Burgundy goes down much smoother than he wants to admit. “That what that is then,” Peter spares a look toward the folder, “a copy? I will let it rest for later when I need to be reminded of it.” When he is alone and needs to remember how good he felt in that moment, putting an entire ship’s crew on death’s doorstep, that is when he will read Elias’ celebration of his actions. “And no, I am not so keen on having such an audience for whatever we may get up to. It is hardly lunch conversation though. Instead, I want to ask you—rather, my uncle wants to ask you. Off the record, or you can charge us, not really important. Have you heard anything interesting about my family lately? Besides the obvious, of course.

“My other uncle, Conrad, has apparently been looking to formally get into some… certain other illegal activities. I spoke briefly with Nathaniel when I de-boarded the plane before I got here, and he told me that while nothing is concrete yet, he has been making some certain financial moves. What we need to know is if anyone else is talking about that. He has been a little sloppy as far as Nathaniel says, but he wants to know if there is any cause for concern before we drop into that market.” 

Drugs, of course, more powerful stuff than on the market right now. Conrad being the scientist of them has always had a mind for pharmaceuticals and the human psyche, so it is not surprising. But there are many people with their fingers in the pie, and the last thing they need is attention from the wrong people and not from allies. Something he thinks about while he starts on his food, wanting to get the boring business out of the way now rather than later.

"To be perfectly honest, I haven't been paying as much attention as I generally would to broader matters because I only have so much of it. And I still do have an Institute to manage." It's going to be a long while before Elias feels equipped to handle another intensive personal project on this scale while still running his office as usual. If he hadn't _liked_ the work, he'd be in much rougher shape right now. Even so, it's been a lot of stress-smoking and caffeine pills. He'll be glad to take a proper break from it. "But I can make some inquiries. _Which_ kind of market, if I may ask?"

Maybe he is unnaturally in tune with the feeling of exhaustion right now, but he can sense that actually pursuing this may not be the best course of action. It wasn't imperative sounding anyway, so he amends his question with, “No need to do too much research, it was a passing question of if there were any rumours or whispers or what have you. If there is anything a Lukas can do, it's keep their mouth shut around other people we do not entrust with sensitive information. We just want to know if we should be suspicious of anyone.”

Taking a moment to have another drink from his glass, he continues, “If you did theoretically hear anything from anyone, it would most likely be about drugs. And if you, again, _theoretically_ hear anything, if you could find it within yourself to, one more time, _theoretically_ let my Uncle know, then he would greatly appreciate it. Probably.” He gestures with his fork in his hand for emphasis where needed, then continues on with his meal.

"Mm. Given that you're talking about this hypothetical situation _here_ of all places, that means one of several things." Elias takes a _very_ long sip of wine.

"One, you're in the dark about whose—er, no, bad phrasing. About the... staff downstairs and their allegiances. They are not of the Eye, but you would do well to not be coy about this in the halls of the Twisting Deceit. As a _friendly_ warning. They're much better at language games than you are." There is no threat or defensiveness in Elias' tone—he has the air of a tutor walking a pupil through an error they have made. "By the way, it was not some kind of calculated move on my part to book you into this particular hotel. The Institute has no great love for the Distortion, but no great animosity either. It's simply good practice to support other businesses in the community.

"Another possibility is that your uncle has had the good sense to get in touch with the Distortion's associates already, or is planning to. And he would like to know what they know. A third: he hasn't, which would be a misstep, but at least he's keen to keep an eye on the competition."

Elias pauses to have some of his meal and let Peter absorb the information given. It's useful to have an activity to keep him from lecturing too much. "My professional recommendation would be to let him know that arranging a discussion would be wise. And if he's looking to get into distribution, specifically? Then that has the possibility of _really_ going somewhere."

Peter likewise lets that all hang in the air for a moment in favour of taking a slow drink of his wine and savouring it. All _very_ good points for Elias to bring up, and when he puts his glass down and picks his fork back up, he says, “I’ll pass that information along when I see my Uncle next—you've definitely given us a lot to think about. I have only just started being brought into the family business, into more than just basic operations. By announcing ourselves like this, I think my Uncle may have known I would get, ah, greedy… I could have taught that lesson in a more cut and paste, quick manner. The least outwardly effective yet able to be passed off as a fluke while still delivering the message.

“I believe your insistence it's a coincidence we are here, but if Nathaniel’s aim truly, again, still in the hypothetical sense, is to expand our capital… Now whether or not it could go somewhere would depend on how deep the message was given.” His tone is casual as he says it, but a deep part of himself could feel the darker cloud on the horizon. More chances to be ruthless would certainly be a nice thing. It almost makes him want to crack open the rye now.

Elias takes careful note of what Peter is saying about being new to the larger share of his family's business interests. That's definitely a fact worth remembering because that's a _useful_ thing to know—especially when he follows it up with all but admitting his interest in pursuing further _boldness._ Peter has proven himself as a capable man and Elias is very glad indeed that Peter believes the same of him. Elias, for one, is fascinated to know what he intends to accomplish in the future and how he and his own interests could benefit from cooperation.

"It _could_ have been much more direct, certainly. But then you wouldn't have had a marvellous time doing it, and we wouldn't be sitting here." Artfully, Elias swirls the wine in his glass around. He's glad to be back on the topic of the fun sort of business. "You have to think: at the end of the day, what's more important to you and to your family? Making money, or pleasing your patron?"

“Oh surely there are benefits to both, but as a favoured son, I am held to a higher standard in terms of how far I will go to do both. Nathaniel likes his money, as do I, but I _really_ like to please my God. The power I am given in return is _exquisite,”_ he still has a friendly tone about himself, but the underlying current of interest from Elias is not lost on him. 

“But you're right, we wouldn't be here if we had not utilized you. and you know, Nathaniel has always seen the Institute as useful. I am sure that as I manage more of the operations, we will have more chances to work closer together. To serve our patrons, and our own interests.” A second toast, he holds his nearly empty glass back out toward Elias.

"I couldn't tell," Elias jests in response to the comments about _exquisite_ things. He has a lot of ways to describe how pleased Peter had looked wreaking havoc on the ship and some of them had made their way into his statement.

Elias makes a bit of a spectacle about pretending to be scandalized. "I'm being _utilized_ now, am I." He doesn't acknowledge the toast, not yet. With an eyebrow raised, he picks up the bottle and refills Peter's glass like the most _dutiful_ of gentlemen. "Me, utilized. Honestly." But he refills his own glass too, raises it in response, and drinks. "In all seriousness, I really am impressed with how that whole affair turned out. You even stirred up a proper witch hunt."

He did not expect the refill, but Peter doesn't mind it one bit, taking his generous sip. The wine is already making him feel pleasantly warmed, the food is good, and his company is agreeable for once. Peter is not sure what that quote means for him yet; that he does not mind Elias’ company in this moment, but he refuses to examine it. Rather, he has a moment of contemplation and says, “It turned out even better than I hoped for. All in thanks to you, Mr. Bouchard. I would have thought having your Eyes carved around the ship would interrupt my work, but they did not.” Another sip. “Would you prefer I use a different word though? I thought ‘utilized’ fit very well, unless you think there is another meaning better fit for your role in this.”

Elias knows it's probably a result of Peter's upbringing and he isn't _actually_ offended. But if Peter is serious about pursuing further professional cooperation, then he'd like to make his preferences known. "Utilize my _talents,_ if you must, or utilize the Institute. But if I've not been a coordinator for you, then I've been an advisor at the very least. It's a... _transactional_ word. Regardless of your personal opinions on dealing with associates or coworkers, human resources don't like to be reminded that they're _resources._ Unless that's what you're going for."

Elias pauses to finish off the last of his tortellini, considering the value of opening up a little. It's risky for him to speak too much about his past, but he feels that Peter's earned a little something. "I used to work in corrections, you know. Also in an advisory role." It's certainly not untrue, he thinks, half-staring out the window. "And I have to say, some of the things I saw playing out on the _New Horizon_ got me feeling a bit nostalgic."

Something that Peter will surely consider—curbing his language to express just what sort of useful Elias actually is. The word is transactional as far as business has been concerned, but now that he is being reminded that there is pleasure mixed in seemingly at every turn, the meanings may have changed without him realizing. Something to contemplate for another time as the subject has moved on to Elias’ past. He won't come out and say that he's been told before in their correspondence that his scope of work has been twenty years at the Institute. It would be easy to infer that this was before that, of course, but the nostalgic note implies many more years than would be afforded by a man of Elias' age. What Simon had said comes back to him for a moment, but Peter instead gently pries for more.

Finished with his meal likewise, he takes another drink, then says, “Corrections! I should be surprised, but that seems a role most fitting for one of your faith inclination. I am sure you were excellent at it too. Do you mean to say you felt like the Warden overseeing his faithful guard restoring order?” The last bit is teasing, Peter leaning back in his chair and crossing a leg over his knee.

Elias actually laughs at that. "Oh no. I was a _menace._ But a subtle menace, which is why they kept me on." He emulates Peter's posture and relaxes into his seat, gesturing with the hand not occupied with the wine glass. "And because inmate compliance was more important than injury or mortality rates. Prisons are already so lacking in privacy that it's _very_ easy for Beholding to get a foothold there. Places of power, I'm sure you understand."

Sharing this with Peter is... unexpectedly gratifying. It's very rare indeed that Elias gets the opportunity to sit down and discuss these sorts of topics with a person who understands what it is like to serve a dread power and what sorts of abominable acts they are called upon to perform. Peter had come to him first about this topic—had asked for his _assistance,_ even. That's probably why Elias feels comfortable in the conversation and inclined to continue.

"The staff didn't like me much, near the end. Can't say I blame them—hard to recover your reputation from something like being accused of standing idly by while one of their fellow officers is quite literally torn limb from limb by a horde of furious inmates. But," he shrugs, "what else _is_ there to do in a situation like that? And it was good for the ladies' morale to have a bit of revenge. A part of me was hoping that something similar would happen with our dear departed captain, but I'm certainly not complaining about how things _did_ go. Thank you for the view—that was a nice touch."

The short tale is _enthralling,_ imagining Elias, or more accurately, Jonah, letting a man die to an inmate riot. It is sweet to imagine—to have a front-row seat to a man’s death is a fantastic thing. And Douglas Byrne’s condemnation surely could have been no different. “I couldn't leave your valuable little piece of jewelry behind for some hotel maid to nick and sell. I figured it would be a nice little touch, especially since your type isn't normally allowed in my patron’s realm. Would you like me to go retrieve it from my things and give it back?” He is not one to wear a tie, so having a tie pin would be quite useless for himself. 

Without waiting for an answer, he polishes off his glass of wine and gets up to go pick up the bottle of rye. Putting his glass down on the table, he picks up the bottle and reads out the label, “Old Overholt, straight rye whisky. Eighty proof, too. You really are spoiling me. Tempted to crack this bottle open, or do you think I should wait?”

"No need. Keep it—I have others." There's no particular sentimental value attached to that tie pin, so Elias is perfectly fine in allowing Peter to keep it. He has plenty of jewelry at home already and he's perfectly aware that it's an aesthetic holdover from his formative years. Some of it is quite old and _quite_ unusual, but not so for that tie pin. Not for the earrings he's wearing, either, which today are a pair of tasteful sterling silver and amber studs.

Elias half-twists in his seat to regard Peter at the table. Pity he's a bit too far away to reach at the moment. "That's up to you. You're doing things a bit out-of-order, though. Generally speaking, having a drink in only your underclothes comes _after_ other activities." Elias continues to be infuriatingly composed, staying at the table and deliberately enjoying the remainder of his wine.

Putting the bottle back down, Peter turns so he's facing Elias. He isn't going to rise to his bait though, not in the way he probably wants. “Out of order, huh? Didn't think of it like that. And as I recall, _you_ are the one with bet winnings to claim. Did you want to get on the bed, or do you want me on my knees on the floor?”

A wicked, playful smile curls across Elias' face. "I wouldn't say no to either. But those weren't the terms set, were they." Elias sets the glass down. His eyes not moving from where they're fixed on Peter, Elias begins to undo the top button of his dress shirt and work his way down. "This isn't a social event. If you'd like to get on the floor, you may, but I have an alternate proposal. At least for the first round."

Raising an eyebrow, Peter looks at the bit of skin that’s being revealed as Elias unbuttons his shirt. His throat goes unfortunately dry being reminded that Elias had wanted this to be semi-public. Unfortunate that this would not be their last encounter then. “And what would that be?”

The expression shift goes back to neutral, and suddenly, Elias is all cool analysis again. "In all your time aboard the ship, I couldn't help but notice that I didn't see you taking advantage of anyone. Why is that?" When Elias gets halfway down his shirt, he unrolls his sleeves to prevent future wrinkling. He needs to stop staring at Peter so much to do it, but Elias is sure he appreciates that small mercy. "Not to your taste? A religious taboo? Performance anxiety in front of a hypothetical audience?" Elias tilts his head slightly, waiting for an answer. "I'm not _judging,_ I'm just curious."

Of all of the things Elias could have said, none of these things are what Peter expected. Maybe something about what they could be doing right now, but being asked something so invasive is not his typical fare. It’s something he hasn't considered, certainly, not like that. “I don't know, I suppose it’s _not_ to my tastes to take that from someone.” He remembers Tessa, and sitting next to her like a guard dog while she got herself off. Not for any particular reason, but sexual violence for the sake of being violent was never his thing. “I suppose if I’m going to spin some violence into my fornication, it is with specific reason for that specific person.”

"Interesting." Peter doesn't seem offended at the line of questioning, which is good. That's something Elias can work with. "The thought must have crossed your mind, though, surely. Tell me: _feeling_ all that fear and hopelessness; listening to all those pleas for mercy; you _loved_ it." Elias walks him through each and every word, earnest as a prayer. "That _must_ have stirred something in you. It certainly did in me, and I wasn't even _there."_

“Of course I loved it,” Peter says, though he can't think of much else to say as Elias’ hypnotic tone catches his attention. Swallowing as he listens, he can't help but be enraptured. Elias has been taking up so many of his thoughts for so long that to actually be here now in front of him, under that gaze where he can see it, it nearly makes him squirm. “And since you are so intimately acquainted with watching me, you also know that I have a perfectly good hand and imagination. I didn't want to take the time to seek someone else out that I was trying to terrorize, not my thing.”

Elias rises to his feet and leaves the shirt behind. Steps over to Peter's front and puts his hands on his hips; a respectful slow-dancing distance. He doesn't need anything except his words to continue making Peter nervous. "I know that well, yes. But imagination can only get you so _far,_ Peter. You must be so dreadfully _frustrated."_

It's a tad annoying to Elias that he has to half-go on his tiptoes to nuzzle into the side of Peter's neck and murmur in his ear. Not getting his mouth on him, not yet. "Do you know what happens, when you watch and listen to so much suffering? You start to _wonder_ about what it's like to be in their place."

The way Elias stalks over to him is enough to get his heart beating quicker, racing when Peter feels the first, genuine bit of contact. He can feel his pulse pounding as he gets even closer, but when he says _that,_ Peter’s mind goes blank for a moment. His heart skips a beat.

_Oh._

Taking a deep breath, he braces himself on the table behind him, immediately interested in where this is now going. His breath fans out over Elias’ shoulder, close as he is, and Peter says, “Tell me, then, do _you_ ever feel alone? I don't think you do, with your Eyes all over the place. You already know what it's like to know fear intimately, don't you? You already know that you are a monster.” What Simon had said comes back to him again, about _Jonah,_ submitting to the dread fear incarnations such as himself and putting himself in that very place. He wonders if this is his angle right now or what his plans really are.

Elias exhales a thinking breath against the side of Peter's neck. "I don't think so, not like you mean. I'm spared that." It's a quiet, honest confession. But the vulnerability doesn't last and Elias disengages, stepping back a couple paces. "But we're putting the cart before the horse, a bit. I'd like to let you know what's _off_ the table first."

While speaking, Elias undresses to his underclothes, leaving his trousers and socks with the rest of his things. It's honestly a bit ridiculous, but so was having a nice meal with Peter mostly naked. "Two things. Well, two and a half. I'd _prefer_ to be able to speak unless my mouth is otherwise occupied, because the _other_ reason why I selected this hotel is that we aren't going to be bothered regardless of how much noise we make." Sound travels strangely in a building like this, and sometimes, it doesn't travel at all.

"One, no causing permanent physical harm. That should be obvious. Marks are perfectly fine, but a trip to the hospital might spoil the afternoon." Fortunately, Elias has never needed to do that as a result of sexual misconduct and he would very much like to keep that streak alive.

"Two, no putting anything in my mouth that's been in my arse. But if you're using a condom, that's acceptable." He can't not be reminded of the last time the two of them had gone at it; of feeling stretched and empty while his mouth was full of him, shaking all the while from nerves and oversensitivity. Elias had conflicted feelings about Peter's conduct generally, but the act itself? _Highly_ satisfactory.

"That's really all. There's plenty of things I don't like, but my enjoyment's not the point, is it. If it actually gets to be too much I'll say 'safeword' and that can be your signal to stop." He shrugs. "I figure you'll probably get off on making me beg for you to stop. But I'm not going to make that easy.

"Oh, and..." Elias brings his duffel bag up onto the same table as the rye, unzipping it again and holding it open. Inside, beside the change of clothes, are a handful of condoms, lube, a pair of police handcuffs, and the same dildo Elias had used on himself while being Peter's voyeur. "There. _That's_ all."

As Elias speaks, Peter can feel an ugly grin forming on his face. _Fascinating,_ that even after their last encounter and Peter’s subsequent degeneracy _(especially_ that), Elias is offering himself up so flagrantly to be used. “Is that how you like it then? I should have known, you were so good last time, but I had a suspicion that I wasn't hard enough on you.” Looking at the contents of the duffel, he pulls out the handcuffs first by the chain and then tosses them onto the bed for later. “I hope you haven't forgotten the key to them.”

Then he pulls out the condoms and lube, also tossing them onto the bed. “What to do with you first though? I think I can abide by your rules, as long as you follow my one. Don’t borrow my eyes, or I will be _very_ cross with you,” words spoken casually as Peter picks up the dildo. “This your toy of choice? I’ll have to find a way to use it on you then, I’m sure I can get creative.” It does not escape him how large it is, but he will deal with it later, it too joining the rest of their supplies on the bed.

“Now, _I_ think we’re in for a fun time,” Peter says as he takes Elias’ glasses off his face for him and places them out of harm’s way. With that settled, Peter reels back and backhands him. “Be a dear and get on your knees, then.”

Peter telegraphs the strike so much that Elias has a decision to make before he's struck. Having the care to remove his glasses first was telegraphing it too, in a sense. Elias considers evading it. He considers catching Peter off guard, seizing his arm, and maneuvering him into a vulnerable position. But he doesn't do either of those things, for several reasons. One, because this body has not been in a fight yet and Elias doesn't have a precise enough sense of strength or proprioception to trust himself with not injuring Peter on accident. Two, because it could interrupt the confident mood that Peter is trying to work up. And three, because he's just _curious._ So Elias takes the hit, going with the momentum, and does not look surprised in the least about it. Peter catches him mostly in the jaw and heat dully throbs in it. Not his favourite thing in the world given that it's going to leave a highly visible mark tomorrow, but Elias had given his permission.

Elias lowers himself to his knees as instructed, because they both know that him failing to do so is an invitation to get smacked around again. "I was getting a sense of you the last time. Now I think I have one. And don't worry, I wasn't planning on borrowing your sight."

“Oh you do now, do you? What a shame you know me at all.” He's glad to see Elias complying with getting on the floor on his knees, and Peter wastes no time in swiping his thumb across his lips, prying his mouth open. With his other hand he tilts Elias’ head up so he has a more direct line of sight into his throat. “Have you gotten any better at taking a cock in the throat? Is that what you use your toy for?” 

Dragging the pad of his thumb over Elias’ teeth, he presses down on his tongue to get a better view. He looks pretty like this, the thought worming into Peter’s mind quite unwillingly and annoyingly. And he had taken the smack so _easily,_ to boot. “Would love to test you out again, does that sound agreeable?” Hooking his fingers under Elias’ chin so he can get a proper grip, he forcibly nods his head for him.

In the context of willingly being on his knees and having a partner that is unafraid to _take_ from him, Elias is weak to this. Being appraised is the first extended bit of intimacy he's gotten so far today and he has to fight himself on not leaning forward into it. The way his eyes flutter closed says enough, though.

Peter's guess is technically correct, but not as correct as he might think—Elias had only tried sucking off the toy once, shortly after the wedding. The gag reflex had kept it from being a pleasant experience because restraint and failure were both detestable concepts to him. But he _isn't_ going to let Peter know the truth of that.

Elias draws back, settling his weight on his heels and forcing Peter's thumb out of his mouth with a push of his tongue. "Certainly not for _your_ benefit. Toys aren't as good as the real thing. I _do_ have a social life outside of you, Peter." The arrogance he's wearing looks fit to be smacked clean off his face.

It is funny that Elias _likes_ that, no matter what he says to try to rile him up right after. “Oh, Elias, I am _hurt._ I thought what we have here was more exclusive than that.” A statement Peter holds no sincerity in, of course, but he still touches a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “I don't think you've had as much fun with others as you've had with me—tell me, am I correct in that assumption?” Said for the sake of inflating his own ego, he doesn't particularly care, of course. 

His cock is already interested in this, hanging heavier between his legs as he tugs his briefs down so they can slip off his legs. Stepping out of them and pushing the fabric away with his foot. “I am _sure_ we have all day, but you've made me impatient. Are you going to put that mouth to use, or am I going to have to make you?” Peter is using this time to size Elias up, see just how he's going to have to _handle_ him based on how uncooperative he may be.

They both already know the answer to that not-quite-hypothetical and Elias rolls his eyes to it. If Peter needs some ego-stroking to get it up, Elias supposes that's fine when he didn't really expect anything different.

The experience is utilitarian with other people—sometimes a diversion or sometimes a meal when they have secrets worth sharing over pillow talk. He's already _received_ what he needs from Peter and it's sitting in a folder on the table. Obviously Elias is here because he wants to be.

Elias runs his tongue across his lips to dampen them and shuffles in a little closer. "I'm sure you're going to make me, regardless." He'd rather save his active resistance for a time when he doesn't have to be concerned about biting having consequences or acquiring visible injuries. So, obediently, he starts by jerking Peter off with his mouth firmly wrapped around his cockhead, tip grinding up against the flat of his tongue with every stroke.

Humming, he pushes his hand into Elias’ hair, stroking almost affectionately. He doesn't know what to do with that yet, because if he's brutally honest with himself, Elias has been the most fun of a fuck he's had in ages. Certainly the only one he's dwelled on so much, but the man makes it hard _not_ to dwell. From all of the little favours he's done for him, to the effort he's already putting in, it makes him wonder who has the soft spot here. 

“You listen so well to me, Elias.” He lets him do his work for a handful of moments before gripping his hair tighter. He doesn't pull his mouth down onto his cock fully yet, instead thinking about Elias saying watching people suffering had him imagining himself in their place. What an interesting concept, to want to suffer, to _want_ to be _broken._ “Makes me wonder just how in tune with my patron you may be, at least in passing. You don't feel the ache of emptiness, like all feeling has been sucked from your soul, left for dead as you cry and beg and plead to be salvaged. That is what I made Byrne feel, that exhilarating rush of fear that crushed him to his very core. No, your loneliness is much more bittersweet.”

Moaning low in his throat, his hips push forward. “Tell me, what was it like to be a boy at boarding school?” Inhaling deep, Peter can practically _taste_ the undertones of alienation and isolation hidden deep within Elias’ psyche. “You were an outcast from your peers, no? Always too smart to learn anything from your instructors, too advanced to pick up friends, and too awkward to have a proper seat at the table of academia until you had grown out of it. That's what you taste like. Like you secluded yourself behind your books and in your fantasies of the supernatural. I wonder if your expectations were exceeded, or if you find yourself _bored,”_ he pauses and pulls Elias’ mouth down further onto him by the grip on his hair.

Peter's going to start at the beginning then, is he? Elias would be a liar if he said he hadn't expected this, and doubly so if he claimed not to be intrigued by the possibility. He wonders how it works. He wonders if Peter can see things, or empathize with them, or if his words are Lonely-gifted insights and he's just being a conduit for them. Because these aren't mere lucky guesses or the results of intensive research—these are not Elias' truths but _Jonah's._ Elias Bouchard had never been to boarding school. He'd been _popular_ in class.

Jonah remembers, and he plays along, and he does his best to lose himself to the rhythm of tonguing at Peter and stroking him off. Having something concrete to focus on helps him from getting dangerously swept away by old, forgotten rejection. It had hardly mattered, at the time. He'd had his passion and his drive to _understand;_ to make _sense_ of it all. Why waste time on participating in his peers' frankly idiotic teenaged pursuits? So he could make _friends_ and have to spend years maintaining those relationships, writing letters and making social calls to people he was _stuck_ in school with? And what good would that even do him? They would lose themselves to banal occupations and strained marriages, and they would wonder why he'd never settled down himself or stopped obsessing over folktales. At that age, Jonah had known the futility of making those connections and was satisfied to never try.

Huffing out a breath, he thinks on it, closing his eyes to concentrate. There is emptiness behind the eyes of Knowing. There are traces of every dread fear, behind the facade that is Elias Bouchard, but Peter focuses on what is most pertinent. “Just knowing about fear was never enough for you, you had to seek it out like a spoiled child and own it for yourself. I wonder how you did that, to immerse yourself so thoroughly, to serve them without binding yourself to them. At the end of your encounters, you _knew,_ and you used your Beholding to understand, sure. But how did _you_ feel afterward? When you had your knowledge and went running back home to document it in your diary pages. 

“Did you feel empty? To be discarded, alone and shaken up without the gentle touch of a single soul to pull you out of that loneliness? Did that loneliness feel _clean?_ Clean of those who would not take you seriously; who did not understand who you were? Cleanliness is godliness, as they say. Did it feel good to be a man alone on top of your knowledge? Godly? Did it feel good, _Jonah?”_ Peter grits his teeth, moaning as his hips snap forward, shoving his cock further into his throat.

Jonah _chokes_ and it has precious little to do with the physicality of the action. The revulsion in him, which had been steadily growing with every word that Peter says, at last boils over into _hate._

Peter is going beyond the pale in calling him by a name he _has no right to._ And because of this, his rage is directed outwards instead of at himself.

Jonah's glare is an icepick to the brain and his bloodthirsty nails go carving lines into Peter's ass, grabbing and puncturing and trying to drag him away. The only reason why Jonah doesn't use his teeth is because he needs this dick for later.

The pinpricks of pain in his head and on his backside drag a sudden, _loud_ moan from him. Peter knew the admission of his true name would not end pretty, but he could see no reason to hold it back that he knows. What a satisfying way to slam the proverbial card down on the table, too. “Maybe I _should_ have cuffed you up before this, what a rude man you are.” Pulling Elias off of him with his fingers still gripped in his hair, Peter looks down at him. The anger so plainly written on his face is a sight for sore eyes—finally something other than boredom or controlled displeasure. The look is ugly, and _thrilling._ “I think now is good a time as any if you're going to be like _that.”_

That masochistic sound is _far_ too attractive, and Elias is furious with himself for finding it so at a time like this. He stops clawing at Peter abruptly, not wanting to give him any further satisfaction. Leave it to a degenerate to get off on a headache.

 _"You have no right,"_ Elias seethes. He's showing his hand, as he well knows. There is so much more to explore in Jonah's early days; the times of constantly overestimating his mental fortitude and the self-imposed, paranoid isolation that followed. Loneliness was a vexing fear for him because it is _insidious,_ offering up the illusion of safety from a terrifying world. Back then, he was a lot slower to realize when he was being his own torturer.

Elias gets his feet under himself and goes to rise, twisting his hair out of Peter's grip on the way up. It's _just_ too short to get a proper handful of it—fine to tug and guide him by, but not to drag him around with. Elias isn't entirely sure what his end goal is in getting to his feet, but he'd at least like to have the option to defend himself. On the ship, Peter was so evasive whenever the crew intended to do harm to him. One could even think it cowardly. Elias wants to see how he'll do with a bit of physical confrontation, since he most certainly does not intend to be restrained without it being _earned._

“So you are allowed to know my identity, but I can't know yours? Now that's not very fair, is it?” Even as he pouts, facing Elias who is prickling with animosity, there is a cruel note in his voice that he can't mask. Elias had started this little game by breaking into his hotel room to find out his name by stealing his wallet, it's no matter that this information was volunteered by Simon. Rather, he almost wants to thank the old man next time he sees him for giving him the gift of riling Elias up into true fury. 

Stepping closer into Elias’ space, Peter chuckles as he says, “Oh, wait, you wanted to keep that one a secret under all circumstances? Rotten deal.” Grabbing for Elias’ arm, he takes hold of him by the wrist and starts dragging him toward the bed, intent on grabbing those handcuffs.

The way in which Peter strategically deployed his name has Elias convinced that he hadn't just learned it. He _knew,_ and he'd shown nothing, even when he was discussing Millbank. Does he even know about Millbank? But much, much more importantly: what had he learned about Jonah's life and his associates, if anything, aside from what his god was telling him? Truth be told, Elias is a touch _anxious_ about that. If he was in a rational state of mind right now, he might find it ironically amusing to worry about which of his secrets Peter might know.

"That is damn well _not_ what I mean." Because it's not about the name, not really. It's about the larger picture.

Elias makes a half-hearted attempt to free himself from Peter's grip, mostly just for show. He's eyeing him up, waiting for his opening, and when Peter grabs the handcuffs Elias rounds on him and cracks him across the face with a truly vicious slap. Fair's fair. Even if Elias is sure that Peter's getting the worse and certainly more malicious strike of the two.

Peter had _hoped_ Elias wouldn't take this so easily, and he's glad to be proven right by a _wicked_ slap to the face. Humming, he drops the handcuffs to the floor and lets the pain of the sting seep in, putting a hand up to his face to gingerly rub at his cheek. The momentary ache is much nicer than he wants to admit to—it’s not often he gets into altercations as it is, but during sex? It has been a long while since he's had a proper fight with whomever he’s sleeping with. 

Taking a quick, deep breath, and huffing it back out through his nose, Peter puts one hand on Elias’ shoulder, thumbing at the hollow of his throat. “Over two hundred years in you and you've never once learned any manners?” Balling his other fist up, he gives Elias a quick, strong punch to the stomach, pushing down on his shoulder simultaneously to get him back on his knees. 

Simon had given him quite a few fun details about Jonah Magnus, sure, but Peter had done a little bit of research on his own. Only enough to sate his curiosity about the founder of The Magnus Institute, but it was only what was already publicly available. In truth, there is a lot of knowledge Peter is missing, and all he had spouted just now were whisperings of loneliness from his god, nothing more. Curious that Elias let it get so far under his skin immediately, as if whatever knowledge Peter has will be going anywhere.

Elias drops and tries not to go down too hard. Getting punched the once is quite enough for him. There is a lot of harm he could still do in retaliation, even on the floor and panting for breath. The possibilities come and Elias lets them go because his intended goal is _not_ to provoke Peter enough to land himself in the hospital. He'd gotten the one good hit in, and he's satisfied with that.

My, Peter _had_ done his research. Jonah'd had his bicentennial only a few years back. Elias swallows, forces his breathing to steady some, and looks defiantly up at Peter. "I reserve them for people I actually _respect._ I'm not scared of you, _Peter Lukas."_

“Congratulations on learning my name!” Kneeling, Peter picks up the handcuffs and wrangles Elias into them by sheer strength, and not for lack of him trying to avoid his fate. He makes sure to shut them _extra_ snug. “I know you said you want to be able to speak, but your voice is getting _quite_ annoying. Shame you didn't bring that gag you threatened me with, it would look very pretty on you right about now.”

Grabbing the chain connecting the cuffs, Peter stands up and brings Elias with him, shoving him so he lands face first on the bed with his legs hanging off. “I do think it is a poor decision to not be scared of me though, are you sure that’s wise? Or maybe that's what you’re saying to make me show you the least amount of mercy.” 

Bringing one leg up on the bed, he puts his knee to the small of Elias’ back, right under where his hands rest joined against it. Not the _best_ leverage, but that isn't the point. Making sure he has solid footing under his other leg, Peter grabs for Elias’ briefs and tugs them down to his thighs, leaving them there so he can caress his backside. “I wonder how much you can take… I wonder what would break you and make you beg me to stop.” The first slap against Elias’ ass echoes in Peter’s ears, the force stinging his palm with it.

Old and primal patterns take over as soon as he's being manhandled down onto the bed and the fight goes right out of Elias. It'd be foolish to struggle given their positioning and would only make the handcuffs bite into his wrists more than they already are. The only protesting movements he makes are in his hips, and that's mostly just to get his cock resting at a not-quite-so-awkward angle.

Whatever it is that would break Elias, it's certainly not _this._ Again he hates himself a bit for how magnetic he finds the violence in Peter, and as he is subjected to more and more of it, he doesn't have room in his head for self-loathing anymore. Elias shuts right up when he makes a gag for himself out of the blankets and bedsheets between his teeth. With his cries muffled and face turned away from Peter, he hopes he can pass them off as _only_ pained.

Peter is not an idiot, he knows some spanking isn't going to do the trick. Maybe if he had one of the family rings on so he could leave some welts, but tragically, even plain jewelry had not been an essential part of his plan. Once he's stricken him enough to make the flesh red and hot to the touch, Peter soothes the spot with much gentler fingers. Dragging his fingertips gently down his thighs and ass, and then digging his nails in on one side as he scratches back up. But he doesn't have anything to say just yet, instead grabbing for the lube and popping the cap to squeeze some over Elias’ hole and then a thin line across one cheek.

Tossing the bottle back onto the bed, Peter lets the slickness drip down onto his thigh while he rubs Elias’ hole, teasing two fingers in. “You revel in your knowledge, but you struggle to find anyone who understands your thirst to pry into the head of the world and see _everything._ You chose your God because you are a nosy man who could not mind his own business, and yet so _mortal._ You know what it's like to grow old and frail, and then you take the bodies of younger men to feed your Institute. For what? What is so important that you cannot achieve it in one lifetime?” Of course, it's not an uncommon practice to transfer bodies, but most people he knew of did it purely for _fun._ Or they were cursed, or something equally dreadful-sounding. Elias has _purpose,_ seemingly with some grand goal in mind that he needs to stick around for. Whether it be a chance at a ritual or otherwise, Peter would have thought it would have been attempted by now.

Two fingers turn to three as he talks, stretching him open and fucking him slow. He reaches for the dildo once he catches sight of it, dragging the head through the mess of lube on Elias’ thigh. Humming in thought, he spreads his fingers to make room in Elias’ ass, keeping them there as he lines the head of it up and starts pushing it in.

In the wake of all the savagery, the tenderness of the touch and the blessed coolness of the lube upon his skin send Elias' eyes rolling back into his head. With Peter busy talking and, _oh,_ fingering him, Elias stops trying to quiet his desirous panting and he lets the crumpled fabric fall from his mouth. Enthusiasm is expected here.

Elias doesn't interrupt or try to answer. Peter is just stating facts that he feels neutral on, and because he isn't sure what his life's work is going to even be, some days. In a sense he's already accomplished it and any improvements to the Watcher's Crown ritual would be just that: improvements.

But Elias doesn't dwell. It's hard to do much of anything at all when he's being stretched out this impossibly wide, save for making throaty whines and undignified grimaces. His cuffed hands grab at nothing and at each other, trying to invent an alternate focal point for all his body's tension.

_“There_ we go,” Peter says as if easing a spooked animal, gentle in tone as he finally moves his knee from its perch on Elias’ back. The sounds he's making are going right through Peter, especially as he pushes the dildo in nearly as far as it will go. He lets it rest for a moment alongside his fingers, using his free hand to smear it into the lube trickled down Elias’ thigh. At first he lets his palm rest there, but he very suddenly and pointedly slaps the flesh again. Hard enough that it sends a sharp prickle of pain through Peter’s hand too, the added slickness acting as its intended conductor. 

Using the palm of his hand with his fingers inside of him, Peter grinds it against the base of the dildo as he slaps Elias’ skin again. After a moment of deliberation on whether or not he wants to stave off the hand cramp he's feeling coming on, he goes ahead and puts his fourth finger in alongside his others. “What a darling sight you make, Jonah.” Taunting him with another slap that's hard enough to drag a noise out of Peter’s throat.

Elias doesn't even get the relief of being left to adjust in peace. Every time he consciously tries, Peter goes and _smacks_ him, and the anticipation of being struck again brings the tension right back. He's trapped, speared on Peter's fingers and the toy, and Elias is very much aware that trying to struggle and get away is only going to make things worse. So he doesn't.

It _stings,_ though. It's far past being enjoyable but Elias doesn't want to provoke Peter into making it outright terrible for him. At least he's being complimented—that's not the name that he prefers, but it'll do. Pity that Peter forbade him from borrowing his eyes because he's curious as to what is so 'darling' about a man gritting his teeth and weeping into the bedsheets.

Peter, personally, _is_ enjoying this, and he gets a few more horrible, hard slaps in before wiping his hand on the comforter so he can grab one of the condoms. Tearing the packet open with his teeth, he pulls it out and makes to put it on himself. Elias, tensed up and in pain is _breathtaking,_ but Peter is an impatient man, and much as he would love to draw this out, his hand going numb is unpleasant.

Pulling his fingers from Elias finally, he uses them to grab the end of the dildo, fucking him slowly with it. “Next time you should bring more toys with you.” Peter leans over him, chest pressing down on Elias' arms as he picks a spot between his shoulder and neck so he can bite down and suck on the skin between his teeth.

Elias takes his small mercies where he can get them and exhales a sharp, relieved breath when Peter mostly withdraws. He bites his tongue on the thanks he wants to give. He doesn't trust his mouth with words in it, too afraid to spoil the lull in harshness, because Peter reads as a capricious one, inclined to hold off on what he wants for the sake of being cheeky.

Then there's Peter's grounding weight upon his back, adding a new sort of discomfort to get the annoyances of the other ones to fade for a time. And then the _bite,_ and Elias yowls and writhes and clenches down on the unrelenting shaft inside of him. It is _sublime._ Scraps of bliss like this are exactly why he gives himself over to the whims of capable people.

Snaking his hand under Elias’ chest, he loosely wraps his fingers around his throat while he chooses another spot to bite down on. He considers leaving the dildo inside Elias and pushing in alongside it, and he nearly _does,_ but physically brutalizing him isn't what he wants to do. Elias said that he imagined being in the place of those suffering on the _New Horizon,_ and Peter had done that purely mentally. With the help of drugs, sure, but that suffering had been aurally administered. 

Pulling the dildo out, Peter tosses it on the comforter, reaching for his own cock to guide it inside. He moans right into the back of Elias’ neck, stopping once he pushes in. Getting a better sense of his footing on the floor, Peter rocks into him, savouring how good Elias feels around him. He would say he missed the feeling, but that would imply a level of attachment that he simply does _not_ feel. 

But now that he's inside him, Peter takes a deep breath and says, “How often did you get taken, I wonder. Spread out for someone else’s enjoyment while you kept inside your own head. How far were you willing to let others go who would go past your boundaries and laugh in your face? You were a hermit in your pursuit for knowledge until you got _bored_ of being behind the pages of a book, am I right? 

“So you would look for people who fit your macabre inclinations and attach yourself to them. Not out of admiration, but because you were _terrified_ of not being let in on the little hidden secrets of the world. It made you angry to think you were on the outside of something so much greater than your own human understanding of the esoteric. But when you found those people, you were an outsider to them, entertainment in the form of a desperate, snivelling little man who would do _anything_ to be seen and indoctrinated and _accepted._ Because you wanted to escape your fate of being alone on the outside, looking in. Sound familiar?”

Jonah Magnus, for all he had accomplished, was a _fool_ in his younger years and Elias would be the first person to admit it. But where his companion Robert Smirke was concerned with the question of classification; of putting names to unknowable things, Jonah was focused on inoculation. Of knowing fear in the empirical sense as well as the rational, and by so doing, lessen the power it had over him. So Jonah Magnus had made the conscious choice to make connections with some monstrous people and to seek out danger in a controlled environment.

Mind-rending, acute terror was good—he'd even call it fantastic, on occasion—because once it was over it was _over_ and he could process it in peace. The signs of violence done against him were slower to fade, but those occasions too had a definite endpoint. Psychological cruelty was different. It lasted. The harm Jonah did was self-inflicted, both emotional and physical from the substances he used to get his brain acting on a rational level again. Keeping interest in the Eye meant that he was always a _little_ bit high-strung, so he was at least familiar with self-medication as a tool.

Encounters with Mordechai Lukas were always the most difficult. He, too, used to mock him for his desperation and for his social ineptitude (to which Jonah would often retort about the colour of pots and kettles, for they were both abrasive presences). Jonah liked it even less when Mordechai soured the idea of comfort for him, telling him that his companions and confidantes were using him; that he was a _resource_ to be tapped, and at the first sign of trouble they would cut him out of their lives for good. Jonah hated how believable it was. 

He discovered over the subsequent decades that this was not a taunt, but a disregarded prophecy.

Over his lives, the lesson Elias took from that was to be careful how much of himself he put into relationship-building. That if he was to engage with anything significant, then he would make sure to do it on his own terms. He wouldn't run himself ragged for other people when there was no concrete expectation of reciprocity. He wouldn't do _ridiculous_ things like arrange somebody's travel plans and bring them gifts and allow them to _torture him in an anonymous hotel room._

Jonah Magnus realizes the position that he's in. He realizes that there is no difference between him and the naïve young man that Peter Lukas is describing. And he _grieves._

Tightening his grip on Elias’ neck, Peter starts fucking him deeply, measured movements of his hips to make this as drawn out as possible. “You have done so much for me lately, it almost moves a man’s heart. First an offering, and then a _feast,_ but only to hold me in debt to you. Even now, oblation in the form of sex. Are you getting _attached_ to me?”

The stirring of fear, of uncertainty and self-hatred, rolls off of Elias so _deliciously._ This feels different from what he had been immersed in on the cargo ship—it feels so much more _personal._ He supposes it is. “How many times have you been let down by others, lovers or otherwise? Moving from body to body, watching people leave you and then _die._ You may have your Knowledge, but at the end of the day, you share it with _nobody._ You trust no person to hold you close, you have nobody who _loves_ you, and you give yourself up to strange men who would sooner see you _ruined_ than spend even a _second_ Knowing _you.”_

Peter digs his nails deep into Elias’ throat before letting it go, finally straightening himself up so he can fuck him proper. One hand on Elias’ hip and the other grabbing the chain of the handcuffs to get better leverage.

In that moment, every word Elias hears is excruciatingly correct. He _doesn't_ have anybody. He doesn't even love _himself_ most of the time. He feels pride at times and treats himself with care, but he doesn't take joy in who he is. The only love he has is for a seeing God who would one day watch him die with impassive detachment. Elias understands that view. It's self-directed, too.

For all its eventual futility, Elias still has his divinely-given gifts. He is having trouble seeing through the tears and his perspective changes to view the scene from the inked eye on the back of his neck. Peter's expression is cruel and concentrating, and that's the most frightening part of all of this. Peter is having a _grand_ time glutting himself on his torment, and he could spin this out for as long as he pleased. Even him coming is not a guarantee that this would end when he could violate him with the dildo or his fingers instead. Or both again, or the fucking _wine bottle,_ for all Elias knows. 

"Stop," he croaks, broken-voiced. Elias hardly recognizes it as his. He hardly recognizes or cares about a lot of things this body is experiencing. "That's enough. Just stop," he repeats, and he swears that he can hear the ghost of it reverberating in the air.

The lack of a response is a response in itself, and he can see the tears on Elias’ cheek. Free flowing and bitter, and part of him wants to taste them. Groaning, he doesn't stop, instead tugging hard on the cuffs to pull Elias’ torso up off the bed, then moving his other hand to support him at such an awkward angle. “You look _stunning_ like this, at my mercy. Are you having a good time _now?_ You’ve never had a bad one with me by your own admission, would hate to have this be the first.” His tone is barbarous, feeling a rush of satisfaction at the feelings of isolation and shame rolling off of Elias. Peter is _right,_ and Elias knows it.

He does pull out though, not finished yet, but ready to change it up a bit. With Elias still up off the bed, he takes a more secure hold of him and throws him up onto the bed. Peter wastes no time, getting on the bed and crawling up and pinning his thighs down onto the bed. The flush of humiliation on Elias is _gorgeous._ Spine-tingling. “You look _miserable,_ have I gone too far for you? Are you looking for a lover in me? Someone to commiserate with on your bad days? You want to be treated tenderly?”

Even as he is condescending, Peter dips down and kisses Elias’ stomach, just above his navel. Up to his chest where Peter rubs his cheek over his racing heart. “Is that better?”

Elias can handle the sardonic compliments. Those are fine and he's come to expect them from Peter. He knew that he was going to bed with a fiend and isn't surprised for him to have such unconventional standards of attractiveness. That's fine. Being moved and thrown on his back is fine, and when his legs are spread, he doesn't try to close them. But when Peter starts being cruelly tender towards him, that's when Elias knows he's had enough. He doesn't need this spoiled for him too.

The listening and seeing parts of Elias Bouchard leave the hotel altogether. They flee to his flat; his bedroom; his painting of the Eye. His reference point when he isn't sure of where to go. He sees his bed and his vanity and the windows and the sunlight. There is a nearly empty glass of water on the bedside table that he hasn't brought into the kitchen yet. Faintly, if he strains, he can hear the sounds of the television on in another unit. But mostly it's just silence. Stillness.

Elias in the bed with Peter is animated enough, his breath coming in and out rapid and panicked. He shivers when he's touched, especially when the beard brushes over his skin. He vocally reacts but Elias cannot hear it. And he cannot hear Peter speak any longer, which is the most important thing.

The change isn't apparent for a few seconds, but Peter notices the dead-eyed stare, idly following him but not _seeing_ him. “Oh, you’re _no_ fun, Elias.” Using his horrible sight to look elsewhere and get away from him. “But can you still hear me? Can you still feel me?”

Peter lets one of his thighs go to guide his cock back inside of him. There is a gasp, and a slight shudder as he slides back in, groaning above much more pliant skin. Elias is warm and a little more relaxed with his attention somewhere away from this. “Can you? Can you feel me, Elias?” No answer, so Peter does what any sensible man would do and slaps him across the face. Once, then again after a few moments pass. “Do you hear me Jonah?” asked roughly as Peter’s hips jerk forward into a rougher pace.

Elias grounds himself in his bedroom first, then moves out to his balcony. He looks out over the London skyline to the feeling of getting repositioned and fucked again, and that's almost, _almost_ pleasant. A single slap he could pass off as Peter being rough with him, but more than one of them have purpose. Right, that was a nice getaway for all of the two minutes that it lasted. The child wants _attention,_ does he.

The irritation written on Elias' face as he pins Peter under his stare is somewhat undercut by the ragged groan, but he does recover quickly. _"Stop calling me that."_ And, growing bolder, Elias follows it up with, "Do that one more time, Lukas, and I'll start calling you by your ancestor's name."

Peter laughs breathlessly, _finally,_ he has his attention back on him. “Oh will you? I'm sure you fucked him _many_ times. You used to let yourself be passed around by people who would feast so deeply on your fear that it would _break_ you, was he one of them? Did you go crawling back to him like you did to me? Or maybe you can't handle the truth so instead you have to run away—you keep your eyes on _me, Jonah.”_ Peter spits out the last bit as he adjusts the angle his hips are at, grabbing Jonah's dick in one hand so he can jerk him off. With his other, he grabs Jonah by the throat, putting enough pressure to be a threat.

Elias' heart jumps at the threat around his neck, but his mind hardly registers nor cares about it. He'll go on speaking as long as he is able. "You're going to regret saying that in a moment." Restrained though he may be, Elias is a far cry from defenceless. He keeps his eyes on Peter indeed, and it's a pointedly staggering thing to have visions forced upon you that you were never meant to know.

The scene that Peter sees is of a lamplit, smoky room. It's hazy, especially outside the frames of the viewer's round glasses. Jonah Magnus sits across the lap of another gentleman, an arm slung around his broad shoulders for support. The decor is Georgian and so is what they're wearing: formalwear dressed down somewhat but still very clothed given there are other quiet conversations happening in the parlour. Nobody else is in view because Jonah has eyes only for one person at the moment. He looks a few years shy of Peter's age, perhaps, his slightly tousled dark brown hair not yet beginning to turn grey. Jonah raises a decorated hand to scratch at his soft and well-kept beard along the jaw. In return the gentleman's shoulder shifts, rhythmically, and between that and the hitches in Jonah's breath it is obvious what he's doing.

"Mordechai was a handsome one, don't you agree?" Elias keeps Peter stuck in the vision, chuckling just a little as he takes in his reaction. "And certainly less petulant than you."

Peter tries to shake the vision out of his head. He blinks, and closes his eyes, clenches them shut as his hips stutter. The setting is unfamiliar and _old,_ but he knows immediately that it's a memory from Jonah. Grimacing, he grits his teeth and says, _“Stop_ that.” He doesn’t, of course, and the whole thing plays out painstakingly slow and in full detail. He can hear Jonah’s little gasps, sitting so delicately in his ancestor’s lap like he is. The room full of people is so _vivid,_ it's giving Peter an acute sense of being _watched_ and the anxiety that comes with it. The threat around Jonah’s throat becomes a warning, Peter tilting his head back as he grips it tighter. “You _will_ stop, _Jonah,”_ each word is measured carefully as Peter fucks him harder, determined to get off.

Elias outright laughs. _"You_ didn't." It's probably not wise to be using up his air by taunting him, but Elias simply can't resist.

And Elias takes Peter somewhere else. Another evening, to a bedroom.

Mordechai is lying supine on a background of rumpled bedsheets. He looks an absolute _wreck,_ incoherent with pleasure, flushed and bruised and well beyond words. Sharp motion jerks his body up towards the headboard, and he only just has time to settle before it happens again. The gaze appreciatively rakes down his body, to the legs being held up and apart and to the thick, blood-dark cock bouncing on his stomach with every harsh thrust.

When Jonah speaks, the cadence is the same but the voice is different, higher and rounder and distinctly Edinburgh. "Mm, _Mordechai._ Your wife doesn't fuck you like this, does she." A pause to readjust. An especially _spiteful_ snap of the hips, a grunt, a pleased and warbling inhale. "Does she _know?_ Does she suspect it? A lonely man like you eats that doubt right up, I'll bet. That's _revolting."_

And it continues, right up until Elias' body suddenly decides it's at its limit and he violently releases. His scream is dulled under the pressure of Peter's hand and he _writhes,_ struggling to keep his hips up off the bed. He looks _much_ more undone than Mordechai had a moment ago.

This time is _worse,_ the vision showing Mordechai a few years later clearly by how he had only just started going grey with age. The same dark hair with wisps of grey on his head and in his body hair. The gaze lingers much too long, to the point where Peter nearly feels like he's looking into a _mirror._ A mirror that’s being fucked into ruin, taunted and loving every moment of it. The mention of Mordechai’s wife; being called _revolting._

It feels like Peter is short-circuiting, a deep part of him _eating_ it up. Jonah’s real voice is sweeter than Peter would ever admit, softened even in its awful cruelty in a way that makes him shudder. When he feels Elias clench around him and the vision cuts off, Peter fixes his eyes back onto his. Burning with animosity as he reaches up with his other hand to choke him _properly._ Two hands, pressing his thumbs into his windpipe and cutting off his air. It only takes a few more long, harsh thrusts before Peter is burying himself deep and coming with a shout.

For several long moments, Elias doesn't have a care in the world. He doesn't even feel how much he hurts from the injuries Peter had dealt him. It's incredibly cathartic, especially when Peter releases into him. It's nice, being useful like that.

The lightheadedness is a growing concern, but for now, he's alright. Elias couldn't tap out even if he wanted to with his arms bound and pinned underneath him. There's the smallest spark of fear back, but that's all. Elias is in no state to be fighting it. He closes his eyes and rests.

Coming down from the high of orgasm, all that remains is the _fury._ Of Jonah taunting him about his conquest of Mordechai; of being so close and personal with his ancestor that he brings up his wife’s despair. ‘Revolting’ echoes in his head, sending another shiver up his spine as his hips buck up into Elias’ body. Sensitive and close to being overstimulated, thrusting again deeply into him, Peter doubles down on choking him. 

“I could kill you right here,” ground out in a tone of voice that sounds positively _ferocious_ coming from him. “And what would you leave behind? Nothing, to nobody. You are unloved, unwanted, and a selfish brat of a man who thinks he will always get his own way.” Gasping, Peter bows his head, hips moving jerkily as he feels his cock stiffen after having started going soft. Even as Elias starts to struggle beneath him, Peter doesn't relent.

All of Elias' struggling is instinctive at this point. Peter's words are very far away and come in grey and humming. With his final gasp and bit of focus, Elias sees and shares two things, both from less than a day ago. 

A flash of Elias' desk and its ritual implements, paper spread out and a pen waiting in his hand. The solemn words, "Curator of fear, I have a tale for you."

Then the churning evening sea, as seen over the rail of the _New Horizon._ The burning cherry of a cigarette in his periphery as he takes a drag. A glance upwards and impossibly, dauntingly huge is the image of Elias' god in all its splendour. The multicoloured halo of the iris encircling the ravenous, infinite aperture.

If Elias is to die, then, _this_ is what he wants his last sight to be.

All at once, Peter lets go of Elias’ neck, coming again with an intensity that nearly makes him collapse. The latter had taken his body by surprise, but the former sends a horrible jolt of fear through him when he looks at the angry flush of Elias’ skin. The overwhelming glory of being _seen_ by the Ceaseless Watcher. It is awe-inspiring just as much as it is shocking, unholy in how Peter is reprimanded for his violence. At that moment, Peter realizes that there would be _consequences_ to his actions; that the permanency of death for Jonah is not something that would go unpunished. 

It feels _nauseating,_ submitting to the Eye’s power—Peter feels the shame well up and overflow as if his own God is scoffing at him. Admitting defeat in this as memories that are not his own dance in front of his eyes in an infuriating rush that leaves him _aching._ The sting of whiplash is what moves him, pulling out of Elias and scrambling away so he can catch his breath.

Panting, mortified, Peter takes a long moment to gather himself, only looking over at Elias to make sure he's still alive. He can see him breathing, and that's enough to make him let out a relieved rush of breath. He’s passed out, by the look of it, so Peter gets up to go toss the condom and clean himself up, putting on the hotel bathrobe in an attempt at modesty. To be considerate after quite nearly murdering him, Peter also grabs a damp washcloth to clean the mess off of Elias’ stomach and from his ass. Once that’s taken care of, Peter goes over to the duffel and finds the key to the handcuffs, turning Elias onto his side so he can get at the locks. Undoing them, Peter places them along with the key on the table next to the bottle of rye that he has no plan to open at this moment. 

He should have opened it earlier.

Elias comes back to semi-awareness while Peter's fiddling with the handcuffs, but he feigns unconsciousness for another minute or two. Taking a break from having to do anything sounds like a wonderful idea. He's not afraid or upset or angry. Just tired and sore all over.

He rolls over on his back and raises one of his wrists for dispassionate inspection: it's a mess, the skin chafed and split in places. He frowns and lets it fall back down to the mattress. Slowly and laboriously, Elias reaches down to grab some of the blankets and cover himself partially. He's not up to doing more than that.

In the end, it's his thirst that motivates him out of bed. He'd ask Peter to get him a glass of water, but Elias heard the balcony door open several minutes ago and he hasn't come back yet. So Elias gets one for himself, washes off his face, and dresses in the lounge pants and the heather grey Henley shirt he brought along. He'd done things like this enough times to know that getting into a three-piece suit right afterwards would be torturous.

They don't _have_ to talk, but Elias wants to at least see how Peter is doing. So he takes his cigarettes and water out to the balcony and takes up a spot a medium distance away.

After some time, Peter hears Elias actually get up. He’s just finished his first cigarette, lighting up a second when Elias actually joins him. For once, Peter is speechless with no idea what to say, having been thoroughly shaken by whatever the _hell_ had just happened. For the briefest moment, he had considered opening up his patron’s realm and escaping into there, but having so thoroughly embarrassed himself by losing control had kept him right here. He didn't need Elias to hold it over his head if he'd disappeared.

Peter had been _ready_ to snap his neck. He _rarely_ gets pushed to physical violence, more likely to be the silent entity lurking in the mist than get up close and personal like that. _Literally,_ that's his style. Even with anyone else who had gotten rowdy with him during sex, he had never gotten to that point. It’s… unsettling. That Elias had brought him so far out of the haze of emotional numbness to experience _that._ The jealousy that had gripped his rib cage had been so dense that Peter _would_ have done some serious damage even with people like themselves having uncannily quick wound healing. 

Still, after a long moment of smoking in silence together, Peter sighs and asks, “Alright over there?” A genuine question hidden in an indifferent inflection.

Elias half-turns towards him in acknowledgement but doesn't try to force eye contact. This is Peter's way of showing concern, it seems like. He'll take it.

"Still coming down. But I will be." There is a disconnect between sensing things and assigning meaning to them. His body feels like something of a foreign thing to him, and when he guides it into action it feels mechanical. Elias just feels generally _numb,_ to be perfectly honest.

"Maybe don't try to wreck this one next time," he dryly says and rolls his shoulders. At least having his hands bound behind him was slightly better for his posture. "I've only had it for a year."

Snorting, Peter does actually look at him as he says, “As if you couldn't find a different body in a snap.” He is only a _little_ incredulous that Elias is so nonchalant about it, but he supposes this was technically the agreement. He did abide by the rules, and says as much. “But, I didn't put you in the hospital, and nothing went in your mouth that had been in your arse. You could've used a gag though.” A few notes away from sour, and it does not escape his notice that he hasn't kicked Elias out of the room yet. 

Now that more time has passed, the sun is going down behind clouds that threaten rain. There’s a chill in the air that feels exhilarating after such a vigorous fuck, welcome as Peter calms down and gets back into a frame of thought that isn't led by him being horny. He feels… comfortable.

Elias scoffs. He has a lot of possible retorts for that, but he doesn't feel like arguing for the sake of arguing. Instead he looks down at the city for a time to ground himself, not used to seeing it from this southern a perspective. He makes sure that he's actually drinking the water.

"People do and say things in the heat of the moment that they don't mean," he muses in the direction of the city. "I'm trying not to dwell. You shouldn't either."

Hearing Elias say that is… oddly reassuring. Peter would sooner choke than say that, of course, but it’s good to be reminded that heat of the moment passion could always be excused away. Humming in response, Peter stubs out the remainder of his cigarette before he flicks the butt off the balcony carelessly. Thinking on it for a second, Peter turns and heads back into the room, going for the bottle of rye and opening it. He pours himself a decent amount into the empty wine glass he had left adjacent to it, then heads back out to join Elias. This time, he stands a little closer as he takes a sip and savours how it burns down his throat. He does tilt the glass toward Elias though in silent offering even if a spot of liquor would be directly counterproductive to hydration.

Elias tracks Peter's movements in his periphery, making sure he isn't getting up to anything suspicious. The man _had_ just attempted to murder him, so he feels perfectly justified in wanting to keep him where he can see him.

Draining the rest of the water and tucking the glass under his arm momentarily, he takes a step in to accept the offered drink. Elias doesn't have much—rye isn't his favourite, and he's fine with the couple glasses of wine he's had already. After he returns the glass to Peter he doesn't try to build that distance back.

"We probably shouldn't have jumped in with the heavy things first, should we." Elias shakes his head a bit in self-deprecation, the faintest hint of a smile returning.

Exhaling on a laugh, Peter accepts the glass back and says, “It _does_ seem we may have gotten in a bit over our heads with this one.” Peter looks at the beginnings of a bruise on Elias’s neck and feels another pang of self-disgust for being weak. He should have never let Elias get under his skin like that. Feeling … _bad,_ that's a new one. Some horrible part of himself wants to reach up and gingerly trace the evidence of his damage, but he doubts Elias would appreciate that. _Peter_ would not appreciate it of himself, either. 

Taking another sip from his glass, he thinks again about why he has it, why they are _there_ in the first place. A celebration of their destruction of the _New Horizon,_ and a celebration of how this will most likely further his family. Everyone is happy, Elias with his statement and Nathaniel with his revenge taken. And Peter, stuck between it all when he would be quite happy freeing himself of all of these troublesome _obligations._ He is in far too deep, a realization that settles a foreign weight in his chest and his stomach. 

Standing, watching the city in the distance as the sun continues to lower in the sky, it is unfortunate that the evening light is so bright right now. The day had started off clammy and grey and all drizzling rain. Over the course of the day it must have calmed down, the clouds parting besides a few dark, low-hanging, and hazy looking storm clouds much further in the distance. It’s not quite sunset, but the colour of the sky near the horizon is yellowing. It’s refreshing, leaving him feeling almost pleasant, present company notwithstanding.

Peter isn't much of one for initiating things, Elias is discovering. A _filthy_ mind, yes, but it does seem like he needs that little push along to actually act on anything. Maybe he's not that great at reading signals. And it's fair for him to not want to engage after their previous scene.

Elias finishes off his cigarette and crushes it into the bottom of his empty glass. Being left out here with nothing to do is a recipe for harmful thinking, so he announces, "I'm going to start packing up," and risks giving a casual pat to Peter's arm on his way back inside.

Peter hums a short acknowledgement and has to suffer listening to Elias packing his things away. Each second passing where Peter could feel the pressure building inside like torture. The mounting frustration is so completely alien to himself, the feeling mixed with others that he cannot even identify weighing him down. Like a sinking anchor that kept going down and down until it reaches his bones. 

It is all simply too much, Peter’s high of the afternoon nosedive crashing into an endless, turbulent ocean. He needs to _leave._ Elias needs to leave. Peter needs to leave and go home, and then he needs to leave and head out to sea and get lost for as long as he could. Unfamiliar with this twinge causing his heart to beat hard with anxiety. 

The brief touch replaying in his head in increasing intensity is what does him in, needing to be as far away from this as possible. He waits a good minute after the door to the hotel room closes to make sure Elias is not close enough to notice the change in the air when he calls up the fog and the static of the Lonely. Ripping his patron’s dimension open, he steps through the door and fades into the comfort of total numbness.

Peter's building anxiety is palpable in the air, and Elias has a pretty good guess as to why that is. He also has it in his head that trying to offer comfort, even if he were feeling completely stable-minded, would likely make the situation worse. So Elias tries to pack his things up relatively quickly and makes the choice not to say goodbye on the way out. He'd like to, certainly. But he doesn't think that Peter would take it very well at all.

Elias knows he looks a bit of a disaster, but he doesn't let walking through public spaces in the early evening bother him that much—he'd parked close by for a reason. And once back home he busies himself doing practical things like making sure his blood sugar is fine and that the cat gets fed. Practical things like taking a shower and having a bit of an emotional breakdown in the shower brought on by the water stinging in his wounds. He even makes the smart call of leaving a message on the answering machine at the Magnus Institute, saying that he isn't feeling well and is going to be taking the day off tomorrow. It's a rather convincing message, given the previous strangling and his general mental state.

But as he said to Peter, he is trying not to dwell. There are a lot of questions in his mind, many of them old and uncovered, but Elias lets the unhelpful ones go when he knows they can't be answered. He has his priorities, one of which is simply to have a nice day in with takeout and trashy television.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what up it's jen, you can find me on tumblr @jennyloggins, and on twitter at both @somegarbageisok on main and @slimejen for tma/video game posting.
> 
> Leto can be found on tumblr @auto-didact (general) and @divorcecravat (TMA).
> 
> **Content warnings:**  
>  Asphyxiation, BDSM, consensual non-consent (if non-consent is a trigger for you, then you _may_ want to skip this chapter), cuckolding (sort of), depersonalization, emotional abuse, humiliation & degradation, incestuous vibes (again, sort of).  
> Mentions of dismemberment, murder, and sexual assault. [return to top]


	7. Dark and Stormy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four months of solitude, dwelling, and moving on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click to view content warnings.

Gertrude arrives each morning at around 6:13. Late for being early in that even after all of these years, she could never quite get out of bed punctually enough to be to work at six sharp when the door is unlocked for the staff. Routine is routine, unless something truly important was happening; if Gertrude needed to be in at six, then she is there ten minutes early to let herself in and make something hot to drink and settle at her desk.

Not a lot would warrant actually coming in early, only a handful of times would Gertrude set the alarm and actually get up with it without spending an extra fifteen minutes petting her cat and staying tucked in. An important errand associated with the Watcher was usually the case, but today it is something different. Today, that something is to see whether or not Elias comes in.

Waiting for Rosie in the ten minutes before the Institute opens, Gertrude stands with her back to the wall and an umbrella in the crook of her elbow while she lights a cigarette. It was not like the Director to not come into work with such little notice and a very specific excuse if the absence was not already thoroughly accounted for in the Institute schedule. Elias was not one to so suddenly fall ill, especially when the afternoon previously he had without warning left for an appointment when she had her own with him for the last half hour of the workday.

It was suspicious enough in itself that she asked Rosie who the appointment was with, explaining there may have been a miscommunication. And Rosie, absolute dear that she is, was gracious enough to tell her that it was with "Captain Lukas."

_Lukas._

Their benefactors—the hand that feeds the Watcher. It makes sense, then, that he would jump at a moment’s notice if it meant there would be no disruption to the Institute’s funding. When she had come in the day before and Elias was not in at 6:13 according to Rosie who, as routine, opened the door at six o’clock, that was cause for concern. 

So here she is, waiting for Rosie to show up, and Elias but a handful of moments later. Speak of the devil, a moment or so later, Rosie comes up from the sidewalk and to the door, giving Gertrude a smile as she unlocks it and heads inside to leave her alone to finish her cigarette. 

Perfect timing, too, as Elias walks up the sidewalk and up the steps, his coat’s collar upturned, umbrella hanging low over his face. That is when she takes her last puff and flicks the butt to the street. She closes her umbrella and heads in first, keeping the door open for him without saying anything more than, “Good morning, Director.”

After that, she sets the kettle in the Institute break room consisting of the little kitchenette with three tables, nine chairs between them. Hot beverage obtained, and off down to the Archives Gertrude goes. She will give Elias a couple of hours before seeking him out.

"Good morning," Elias neutrally responds and heads right past. Even a year into his promotion, Elias is still playing the game with Gertrude where he's not quite sure how he should be addressing her, and he sidesteps it as often as he could. The old Elias had used 'Ms. Robinson' when he was encouraged to be polite, and that's generally what the current Elias does as well when talking about her to others. 'Archivist' had been James' preference, but Elias wouldn't dare to do that yet. Conversationally, it's simply 'Gertrude'. They're close enough in age now for anything else to seem out of place.

Elias drops his things off in his office and goes to consult with Rosie to rearrange his missed meetings. She questions him about his health, of course, and he brushes it off with a story about food poisoning, saying he feels fine now but wouldn't say no to Rosie's offer of tea with lemon and honey in a bit. Gertrude is a creature of habit, he knows, and catches her passing the reception desk on her way down to the Archives to confirm if she's alright for an eight o'clock meeting. Nine is usually the earliest he'll book them for, but he's been trying to tackle the backlog caused by the whole _New Horizon_ project, now made worse by missing a day and a half of work.

He would like to take a quiet day, but he knows he shouldn't. So he settles for a calm hour of tea and reading the couple of newspapers he has delivered to his flat and brings to work more often than not. Elias pays more attention to the Telegraph's international news section than he normally would and comes across a curiously familiar story.

On the 29th of April, a container ship owned by Livingston-Bell Atlantic made port in Pointe-Noire, Republic of the Congo. The water supply was found to be contaminated and the lab results are pending. Given the condition in which the ship and crew members were found, psychoactive substances are suspected. Nine crew members are unaccounted for, including the captain. Seven are confirmed dead, two of which had been in hospital. Another four are in critical condition. Nothing is mentioned about the other few, but it's a safe bet to assume that they're also being treated. My, _my._ What a horrible tragedy.

Elias hopes that at least a _couple_ of them are going to pull through. There are a lot of Magnus Institute business cards on his desk, and the process of writing a statement is an _excellent_ method of confronting one's trauma. Elias cuts the article out of the paper, intending to include it with whatever mail he would send to Peter Lukas next. He makes a mental note to pick up another paper on his way home so he can have a copy for his own records.

But that's something for later. Right now, Elias is preoccupied with making up his to-do list for the next few days until Gertrude comes by knocking at his slightly-opened door.

Something about all of this felt… off. From the very start in the way that Gertrude had received a stiff greeting that morning, down to how his door is just slightly ajar in expectation. Elias’ absence had been very peculiar yesterday, especially with the lack of explanation now. Rosie lets her know on her way up that he was feeling ill after his appointment yesterday, and well, that would be one way to put it. 

In the light of his office, rather than in the half-murky darkness of the rain outside, it is clear that something indeed happened. Elias looks done up with some very telltale coverup on his face, perhaps half a shade off. Not inherently suspicious, but the high-necked and quietly ruffled shirt that also peeks some small ruffles out around his wrists under his suit jacket is enough to make her raise an eyebrow to herself as she closes the door behind her. She had seen him start wearing some much nicer clothing when he had taken over as director, but this look is with purpose.

Perhaps she would ask about it later, but for now it is not her business. She places a folder down on his desk and says, “Good morning again, Director Bouchard. I wanted to stop in early to give you the update on a few of our… associates. If now is a bad time for you though, I can come back later on today.” Even still, she takes a seat across from him and folds her hands in her lap, knowing that he would sooner have this done so he could go back to his other work.

Gertrude's baseline is always analytical and vigilant, and Elias had stopped caring about it or noticing it years ago. Elias spins the folder around towards himself and flicks it open. "No, no, I wanted to have a word with you early. There are some files I'd like you to track down. But first, what's all this?" He scans through the pages quickly, taking note of some familiar names.

“I have been keeping updates on certain people as you have asked,” Gertrude says as she watches Elias pick up the folder and open it. “Notable situation number one, Maxwell Rayner seems to have sought an audience with Simon Fairchild as of recent. I am still trying to get more information as to what it is for, but so far I have been unable to. I can assume it is funding, but I haven't gotten that far. I did some personal investigating into it, but there have been no statements about any particularly strange happenings surrounding either, just some observation from inside sources.”

As Elias turns the page to the next bit of business, she continues, “The other and perhaps more important thing is that it's getting harder to pin down the operations and locations of our resident Distortion. We have had an influx of statements lately regarding people being lost in twisted mazes or seeing people with limbs that are impossible. Nothing in ritual territory yet, but there has been more activity lately surrounding them. Again, I do not have any conclusions, but they have been mostly quiet for so long that the sudden increase in sightings and situations _is_ a little bit alarming.”

"It could be anything," Elias wonders as he turns back to that page. "Rayner and Fairchild are long-time allies, or so I've read. And when I saw them together at Harriet Fairchild's wedding a while ago, I did get that impression." He hadn't actually done a lot of observing them in particular, given it had been a very busy room. Not that he needs to—they've been on good terms with each other since his Jonah days. Rayner had even assisted with Fairchild's ritual attempt, he could recall. A disastrous thing, start to finish. But certainly instructive on what not to do when designing his.

"Given that Rayner has—pardon the pun—gone dark in recent years, I have my concerns about what it means for him to reach out to old allies now. I really don't think that this was just a social call when they saw each other recently." Elias sighs in exasperation and adjusts his glasses. "I hate to put this idea out into the universe, but if he's approaching Simon for _'rebranding'_ ideas and trying to get the People's Church back together, then that could become a situation." He doesn't want to think about it. He _really_ doesn't want to think about it.

When the Distortion is mentioned, Elias pays much closer attention to what's written on the page. "Could you make copies of the relevant statements and send them up my way? That's actually one of the topics I was going to ask you to look into." Each of the sightings seem to be in different cities, but then again, geography matters less when talking about a being with an interesting relation to space. "Was anyone actually taken? And are there any commonalities among the victims?"

It _would_ be disastrous if the People’s Church got back together, and she's glad to see that Elias will be taking it seriously from here. But that is more research for later, as well as something that Elias would probably approach Fairchild about. It would make sense that the two are now allied, considering the Fairchilds have been donating to the Institute for quite a long time and have always had a keen interest in the director. So Gertrude instead takes up addressing the other part. 

“The locations have been different, and mostly based out of the UK, though most of the victims _have_ been UK nationals. The only other potential pattern is that they have mostly taken place in eastern European countries, two people each in Serbia and Bosnia & Herzegovina. The latter, one person went missing. One person in Romania also went missing from a small group. No discrimination as far as I can tell. Old and young, somewhat evenly split between gender. Everyone was white except for Lucian Enache, who is half Romanian, half Ugandan, but has been living in East Farleigh while he attends Hadlow College for their Horticulture program.”

Clearing her throat, Gertrude watches Elias look a little longer through the contents of the folder before she says, “It is a bit ominous that we both have cause for looking into the Distortion’s happenings. I will gather the statements up and have copies brought up to you, but I must ask you to elaborate on your need to keep an eye on them.”

"Horticulture?" Elias takes a beat. Given that and the chat about breaking into the drug market he'd had the day before last, he thinks he's starting to get the picture. "I'd like to know the educational and working backgrounds of the other victims. Particularly in the chemical, medical, and pharmaceutical fields." Is the Distortion _hiring?_ Because kidnapping is certainly _one_ way to do it.

Leave it to Gertrude to press the question. Elias wouldn't expect anything less. "It's nothing much, really." Satisfied for now, Elias neatly shuffles the papers back into place and tucks them into the folder. "A client's been asking about their recent activity. Commercially speaking."

Gertrude nods, satisfied for now with the answer only because she would like to look into it further now that Elias’ interest in it was piqued. “I will have Research get right on that about the other victims. I will be sure to keep a keen eye out for any other happenings surrounding the Distortion as well as anything involving Rayner.” 

Rearranging her skirt a bit as she stands up, she takes another look at Elias and softens her expression. “It is good to see you have recovered from your brief illness. Rough dinner with a companion?”

Elias' expression, in contrast, goes slightly grim. "Yes, I'm fine, although I'm not quite sure where you're getting that idea." Gertrude knows full well that something is going on, but Elias has no intention of confirming any of her suspicions. He's well-practiced in the art of feigning ignorance. "Before you go, I did want to leave you with another project. Do you have a file made up for a 'Conrad Lukas' yet? Have you come across that name before?" Deflection, too.

She has enough sense to not visibly roll her eyes, but Gertrude is well aware that he is dodging her attempt at concern, thinly veiled as it is. “Conrad Lukas? I do not believe I have seen much of anything at all about him, but I will start a file and see what I can get.” Whether it's for official Institute business or for another purpose off the record, Gertrude will handle it quietly for him. Though knowing Elias had met with a 'Captain’ Lukas the other day, she will have to do a bit more research into the family in its entirety. Mostly, she had been told by former director James Wright to leave the family alone and to refrain from digging into their history. 

“Was there anything else, Elias?” A last-ditch effort to get even a hint of context for Bouchard’s disappearance. “Oh, and while I head back down to the archive, do you want me to have Rosie bring you up something hot to drink? Apparently you sounded _awful_ in the message you left for her—she's been so worried about you and ready to fuss.”

"She already has, but I wouldn't say no to more." The next time Elias calls into work, he's going to have to sound more composed if he doesn't want the office staff gossiping about it. At least he hadn't come out and said that he was taking a mental health day.

Elias still isn't doing great on that front. But he feels well enough to be here, and keeping distracted with work helps to keep the intrusive thoughts out. That and the presence of other people, for loneliness can be a brutal thing. If Rosie wants to fuss, he'll let her fuss to remind himself that somebody cares about his wellbeing, even if he's her boss. He'll even take Gertrude's questioning. It's shrewd concern, but at least it is familiar.

Elias raises a hand to fix his hair, unknowingly flashing a hint of dark bruising around the wrist. "Given your... _thoroughness_ when it comes to research, I'd appreciate it if you could pass along any further facts about the Lukases more generally. Should you happen to incidentally come across them." The hint of warning in his look makes it clear that Gertrude ought to tread carefully. It's unclear whether that means around the Lukas family or around _him._ "And please don't make any attempts to contact them or their offices directly. I can fill in the gaps if necessary."

For her to actually see the evidence on Elias, even so quickly in passing, is quite interesting. The bruising looks exhaustive in how dark it is—it makes her wonder if that's the reason for the whole silly getup with his toned-down cravat taking up the plane of his neck. The foundation on his face too is just a little bit off, but she is not feeling so rude as to call attention to it. What she does say is, “If I come across any information about your boyfriend’s family, I will be _sure_ to keep it out of the hands of anyone else, Elias.”

She doesn't stay to see his reaction, having much more important things to do, though, on her way down to the archives, she stops at Rosie to give her Elias’ tea order. And then back to pulling all of the recent Distortion statements again to do a bit more research and dole out some work to her assistants as well as the research team.

_"Gertrude,"_ Elias snaps at her retreating back. He wants to have a talk with her about professional boundaries. He wants to deny the accusation outright, although he knows full well that doing that with any sort of emphasis would only make the case stronger in her head. He wants to do a lot of things that would only cause trouble, and it's not even nine in the morning yet. So what he does is sigh, make sure the door's closed, and pour a bit of whiskey into the empty tea mug from earlier.

He doesn't need this today. Returning to work was supposed to be a _positive_ thing. Instead he gets a thought planted in his head from an infuriating witch of a woman about a thing that _disgusts_ him. Peter had mocked him for getting attached and he doesn't need Gertrude doing the same damn thing. At least she wouldn't weaponize it in the same way that he did. Thinking back on it turns his stomach. He didn't blame himself then for checking out of that situation and isn't about to start now.

Elias can't blame Peter either is the thing. He signed up for that kind of treatment of his own free will and the emotional fallout is _his_ problem to confront. He took risks that he hasn't taken since his Jonah days— _riskier_ than a lot of things he did back then, since he nearly ended up strangled to death and didn't have a spotter ready to intervene. That, he doesn't blame Peter for either. He _had_ followed the rules. It's Elias' fault for being too prideful to put an end to the scene and his recklessness for putting himself there in the first place.

Peter Lukas, simply put, is a _hazard._ Utterly unsuitable as a romantic partner, because sharing anything, _anything_ vulnerable about himself is the same as handing him a weapon.

And here Elias is, in his office, still doing favours for that terrible man and telling himself that this is all strictly professional. He would _love_ for it to be. He's not going to talk to him directly if he actually finds any information of note, he decides. He may not even tell him, period.

After a knock and a quiet "come in," Rosie steps into his office. Elias hurriedly finishes off the whiskey in the mug and sets it down on the desk's far side. "Thank you," he tells her, and tries to put on a brave and sociable face. "Rosie, do you have a moment? I could use a bit of advice."

As soon as Gertrude tells her that Elias had requested another cup of tea, she goes on her way to prepare it. Rosie has been _quite_ worried about Elias’ uncharacteristic absence, especially since it had come on the heels of a last-minute meeting. Even though he assured her a few hours ago that he was feeling _much_ better, she couldn't help but fret over him. 

Fresh mug in hand, she makes her way up to his office and knocks quietly, entering when she is given the okay. He looks a little bit worse for wear right now, so something _must_ be weighing heavily on him. She takes a seat once the mug goes down on Elias’ desk, grabbing the empty one and gripping it in both hands. “Of course dear, what can I do to help?”

Jonah can vaguely recall the couple of times he witnessed the original Elias confiding in Rosie about his relationship concerns. That's most of the reason why Elias is even considering doing this. He takes a moment to consider how best to describe the problem he has laid out in front of him, because it is an unusual situation he finds himself in.

"I... hm. I had an argument with an old friend recently." With a bit of a scowl, Elias slides the tea and coaster closer to himself. This is not at all how he regards Peter Lukas, but it would do well enough for the purposes of the conversation. "One of those really vicious arguments. And he brought up a lot of old things that I've moved past. Or, well, I _thought_ I had." He sighs and meets Rosie's eyes at last. "Have you ever had one of those?"

She gives Elias a long, hard look as she listens to him. The way he considers every word carefully and how he looks away from her clues Rosie in that the way he is saying this is the most watered-down version he can give. But she also recognizes the tension of disappointment and the fury at oneself for allowing a situation to get so far out of hand. Rosie is well-versed in being able to read the signs of indignation for someone else’s misconduct. She takes a second to find the right words, sucking on her teeth in thought. 

“I have, yes.” For a moment, Rosie wonders if the personal anecdote would make Elias clam up, but she hopes it will do the opposite and get him to talk through it. “I know you said yours is a friend, but I had a boyfriend after secondary who probably knew me better than I knew myself. Victor was his name, and he was wonderful most of the time, and we got along like a house on fire. When he would get mad, he would be very _mean_ —Victor would say things that got under my skin so deeply that it felt like I would be miserable forever.” Sighing at the memory, it feels bitter even after all of this time. “But, I didn't let him hold my insecurities over me. He was a rotten man, but I had to show him that he had no power over me.”

_Elias_ doesn't want to pry, but the same cannot be said for his patron. The humming information fills his head, uninvited but not unwelcome. He Knows Rosie's sorrow and her frustration at him and at herself for just standing there and listening. He Sees her ranting to her girlfriends, three wine bottles between the four of them. And when sober, at their drunken insistence, she followed their advice and dumped him on the morning of his birthday. That's _delightfully_ nasty, and Elias has to disguise his amusement by saying, "I hope you got to do something satisfying in teaching him a lesson," to accompany his slight smile.

"Why are men so _terrible? Honestly."_ Elias lifts the tea and takes a cautious sip. It's over-sweet, but he doesn't mind that much. "I've never had much of a knack for relationships. It's different, obviously, but..." He makes a vague gesture, trusting that Rosie will get the hint when she's aware of Elias' preferences in partners. "That was one of the topics my friend brought up. It's one thing to be aware of how your social skills didn't used to be the best, and another to be insulted for still being single." Elias had tried and failed enough times in the romantic sphere that he's largely given up by now, and he's made the joke to people of being 'married to his work' enough times that it's started to stop being one.

“Oh, they are _truly_ awful, but don't let some man try and tell you that you are worthless, or that there is something wrong with you for being yourself. The most important person in the world is yourself, and you have to stand up for yourself when some man thinks he is better than you.” Rosie may not know the details, but she recognizes foundation and clothing choices to hide the consequences of poorly thought out actions. “Either he will leave well enough alone, or he will come _crawling_ back begging for your forgiveness for his poor attitude. It is up to you to dole out forgiveness or punishment, but if you give him an inch, he will take the _world_ from under your feet.” 

Pausing, she lowers her voice just a tad and says with a smile, “And I dumped Victor for good on his birthday, which he deserved. I took the money I was going to use to take him to dinner and went out with my girlfriends instead. He tried to propose to me a couple of weeks later after I kept rejecting him. He said he wouldn't take no for an answer, so I took the ring and pawned it. _Apparently_ it was a family heirloom.” Shrugging easily, Rosie sighs again. “Don't get caught up for someone who would sooner drag you to hell than show you tenderness.”

A whole lot of what Rosie is saying hits right on the mark—especially that last comment. It jolts Elias right back to certain things Peter had said and the accompanying self-loathing he felt, still so fresh in his memory. He doesn't need that. He had _said,_ himself, that he was trying not to dwell. And right now, what he needs to do is stop thinking about Peter Lukas altogether.

"Good on you," Elias says, punctuating her story with an approving nod. "Serves him right. Thank you, Rosie. I think I may have needed to hear that." He's hopeful, just a bit. There may just be something to the idea of not needing to face your problems alone.

“You let me know if you need anything else, I am never too busy to help. Always nice to stop for a chat, anyway,” Rosie says, rising from the chair and straightening her blouse out. Then she regards the other mug in her hand, having not wanted to say anything earlier when she had smelled it, but now feeling cheeky enough to say, “Except for having another nip at work. Honestly, Elias, it’s barely nine o'clock. At least wait until noon.” Tossing him a wink, she heads for the door, tapping her nails on the door after it shuts as a sign of affection.

"You're the worst," Elias teases as she's leaving. He just can't seem to catch a break today, but at least he prefers Rosie's brand of cheekiness over Gertrude's. She deserves a raise. He'd been considering giving her one for a while when she's been such a huge help during the transition in management, and now's a fair a time as any to do it.

Elias settles into the rhythm of bureaucracy, and it's good, even if he does have to rein in his thoughts when they go off wandering where they shouldn't. When the information he asked for from Gertrude comes across his desk, he quietly adds it to his files. There is precious little to be found on Conrad Lukas in the Archives—something to let Research handle as a low-priority item. The Distortion statements are more fruitful and give evidence to support Elias' earlier theory. Both the people taken _do_ have backgrounds in chemistry. It could just be that they're out there somewhere, wandering the twisted corridors until their minds warp with them, but the much more interesting outcome involves them finding a hidden eldritch drug lab to stay and work in. Elias wonders if they were scouted. They probably were. Elias does not pass any of this information along.

When at last Elias leaves for the day, he is quite proud of himself for not having checked in on Peter Lukas once.

  


* * *

  


One hour after Peter was left to himself, he could still be found inside his God's realm. Quiet, shaken, and contemplating. The soothing sound of his own misery and guilt manifesting in an impossibly dense fog, the mist catching him wherever there was exposed skin. The chill leaves more numb than before as even his own God seemed to turn its back on him. Soothing in its own way, but after witnessing the sheer glory of the Ceaseless Watcher as seen by someone devoted to it entirely, the lack of familiarity of the presence of his patron leaves him shivering and exhausted. Where the loneliness of even the Lonely leaving him to himself in the mist's raw form should feel exhilarating, it does not. It feels like he has been burned and the wound improperly dressed. 

Sitting in cool sand that shifts gently beneath him, the ache finally fades into something that Peter could call composed—something that proved to be a _chore._ The overstimulation of trying to process multiple complex emotions relating to anyone other than himself knocked him upside down in a most unpleasant way, but that was the lesson to be learned. Do not trust anyone, do not confide in anyone, and do not get close enough to anyone to yearn for them after they had gone. All that had done for him was lead him _here._ Even more alone than before, but in a way that does not feel thriving.

The anguish truly had not been worth how derelict he had been for Elias’ life, his hands pulsed even after the fact with the memory of that delicate, perfect neck so tenderly in his grasp. Elias had _trusted_ him to keep him safe, and nearly killing him probably wasn't the best course of action. A stupid move on both of their parts. He had felt the stinging of being _Known,_ by Elias, by Jonah, by the _Eye._ And what a sight that God was—the very definition of glorious. The form of a deity that was never for him to have gazed upon as a non-believer. So many colours to the iris that Peter could _barely_ comprehend in the quick flash, the Eye stared directly into his very core. Picked him apart piece by piece, scrutinized until no detail was left unseen. 

Peter feels _dirty._

Shaken. 

Full of feelings that should never have had the chance to grow into his empty chest, taking up space in his hollow ribcage like weeds that needed to be pulled out by the root. A tall order for someone who cannot even identify _what_ is being felt. Not completely.

Anger is easy. Anger comes to Peter comfortably, though not often. He tends to avoid anger in exchange for his precious solitude by keeping away from any and all situations. But at least anger could be traced back to someone or something that went against what Peter wanted and deserved.

Peter gets angry at Elias.

Anger pulls him out of his stupor, and it allows him to crush down any and all other feelings immediately. He clings to it and drinks it in—feeling the anger at Elias is cathartic. Peter leaves the Lonely and gathers his things up in the hotel room so he can get away from this miserable place. If not for the fact that the folder Elias left held the evidence of Peter’s deeds, he would have left it. Might have even torn it up, which is still a possibility as it sits in the bottom of his bag on his way home.

The anger keeps him reined in, cold and obedient when he visits his uncle Nathaniel to give him the full report of the incident aboard the _New Horizon._ He is told that he has a long trip in front of him, one that Peter welcomes with open arms for a chance to spend as much time away from the UK as he possibly can. The crew of his ship has already been notified, the cargo has been loaded, and the _Tundra_ would be departing early the next morning. He is told that he did a _good_ job, Peter hearing the closest thing to approval that he’d ever heard from him. 

The anger remains, _oh_ does it remain. Peter makes haste to the _Tundra_ immediately, not wanting a single delay to his departure and deciding to spend the night on the ship itself. He makes it to the captain’s quarters with a stomachache, slightly dizzy for it and with a pounding headache to match. By the time he is able to lay in his bunk, the symptoms do not alleviate. Only physical distance would help, that Peter knows, and the feeling of wanting to escape somehow only intensifies.

The first destination on his itinerary takes him to the port of St. John’s in Newfoundland. A couple of days out on the open sea and Peter can breathe _much_ easier, feeling less hot from resentment as the days went on. The anger still burns bright and hot, but not enough any longer to make him feel near-physically sick. Holing up in his cabin and simmering in it as he tries to let it go, it is easier the further away from London he is.

It is when they arrive at port in St. John’s seven days later when Peter realizes he has made a fatal mistake; opening his duffel bag to get his identification information out along with certain ship documents, he realizes that the folder he took with him from the hotel is in there. The realization is _annoying,_ and Peter tosses the bag into a corner as he leaves in a huff to check in with port authority to clear his cargo.

Per usual, it is pretty much all legitimate, but there are a few other illicit pieces of cargo that would be handled by a worker in the port so that it gets to its intended destination without any trouble. Peter, personally, does not really care about the details, as he was never the one to handle that part besides checking in with the worker. There is other cargo to be loaded up, but not all of it had made it to port on time, causing a three-day delay.

Peter takes the time to get plenty of drink in him and get lost in his own misery. The anger only then starts to wane, back to feeling an acute discomfort that he can’t pin down with words like he wants to. Guilt and shame are not a regular part of his vocabulary, so he settles on becoming a manifestation of gloom as he drinks, utterly alone in the bar except for when he needs a refill. Night finds him in an alley, pissing on the wall of a building since he doesn’t want to hold it until he got to his hotel. He is interrupted by a tramp, unkempt and perhaps just as inebriated as Peter is. Peter is asked for money, though he doesn’t look up as he opens his patron’s door to let the vagrant walk right into it, closing it on the confused man. 

Annoyed in a flash, his god fed in another, and back to feeling completely the same distress that is haunting him. After another day and a half of wallowing around and waiting for his cargo to show up, Peter finally heads back out onto the sea.

The destination, now, is Nieuw Nickerie in Suriname, an eleven-day quiet stretch of time that only becomes a burden once the temperature warms up. Truly the worst part of spring in the tropics—the weather remains quite warm. It is an annoyance, another emotion that is now becoming familiar. Welcome, as a soothed form of anger. It is a step closer to get back to the comfortable numbness he is used to, the work beginning to dull the longer he stares at grey skies and dark ocean waves.

This leg of the trip is less eventful, though a dark misery has taken grip of him by the time the _Tundra_ enters port. Misery for misery’s sake, seemingly, as Peter has no earthly idea why he would still be _feeling_ anything. Thoughts of Elias have been all blocked out of his head as much as he can, except for that _folder_ burning a hole in the corner of his quarters. Even within the duffel bag, inside a folder, it almost feels like Elias is mocking him. As if he's daring him to read the document within. 

It goes unread, and truly, Peter has _no_ intention of picking it up perhaps ever.

The ship spends two days in Nieuw Nickerie to avoid a sea storm while the cargo is moved around. Half arrives for here, and half stays with him to head to their next destination. That destination happens to be Dakar in Senegal. Funny how he _would_ be heading there after all.

It is an eleven-day journey, one that leads him to become _dreadfully_ bored halfway in. Boredom makes him dwell on what happened in that hotel room and makes Peter relive it in his dreams. The bone-deep and seething anger at being called by his ancestor’s name, and the carelessness that had come along with nearly choking Bouchard to actual death. It dredges up the same mixed emotions, the same hurt and anger. 

_Feeling_ makes Peter almost dizzy at times, and it makes his heart race much too fast. His body is near-constantly tense, and he can't sleep else the visions of the Ceaseless Watcher dance behind his eyelids. He can feel the delicate skin beneath his fingertips, up until the crack of bone his dreams supply him with wakes him up in a cold sweat.

The dread sits in Peter’s stomach, turning him cold inside in a way he would have never thought would be uncomfortable. Once the floodgates open, the thoughts do not _stop._ Elias with ashen skin, deprived of air for so long that the struggle stopped. Or, Peter’s grip would snap his neck and end his life in an instant. Something that would have carried consequences, more than he ever wants to think about. The spiralling leads to concentration problems, and a sense of absentmindedness that would have proved disastrous if not for his first mate taking care of the ship’s functions per usual while Peter broods in his cabin. 

When they reach Dakar, Peter would have loved to be able to breathe easier, but the moment he turns on his mobile there is a message from his uncle to come back home on the next flight he can get. There is a funeral to attend and Peter’s presence is strongly required, which is how he ends up on a flight to Heathrow with a layover in Istanbul, a journey that takes two days total. The anxiety that wells up at the thought of being in England is, frankly, _terrible._ Especially considering that the last time Peter had taken an airplane, the end result was _undesirable._ Unnerving and tumultuous and _violent._

The minute he is home, that is when Peter can better shut everything off. Surrounded by people absolutely barren of familial _feelings,_ it is easier to slip into indifference. A funeral is a sobering event, surely, but after the ceremony in the family sepulchre, his uncle takes him aside to his office.

To his surprise, Conrad is waiting in a chair, glass of liquor precariously balanced on his knee with one finger on the rim. The man is a decade or so younger than himself, the same deathly pale skin, but with lighter hair atop his head to match the cheery smile on his face, uncharacteristic for a Lukas. It almost feels like a joke that he is one of Peter’s other uncles, but Nathaniel’s father had remarried after a nasty divorce, and that new wife bore him another favoured son. 

“Conrad,” Peter says, nodding his head as he sits adjacent to him. “I see you've gotten back from your university studies.” He had been in the States completing an advanced PhD program in pharmaceuticals and chemistry with a Master's in psychology, that much Peter is aware of. As well as that recently he has been inquiring into some of the more shady aspects of the family business.

“Peter, glad you are in good health. We have a _proooblem,”_ the word is drawn out with emphasis, condescendingly as Conrad looks toward Nathaniel who has also taken a seat behind his desk. “I don't think it's that serious, but my brother thinks that Jacob’s death was suspicious. And _I_ think he was too weak to handle his responsibilities,” rolling his hand in the air for emphasis—it is clear that there is no love lost for his direct superior in the business and in the family. 

There is a silence, Peter waiting for his uncle to pick up where Conrad left off. When nothing is said, Peter fills the silence with, “Well..?”

“It _is_ suspicious,” Nathaniel says, fingers perched across his nose, trying to pinch away a headache by the look of it. He sounds tired for once, like he has put his brother through the wringer again for a countless time. “His death was ruled a suicide by overdose, but the substances in his system weren't in any of his medications.”

“Which he could have gotten _anywhere_ on the street if he tossed some money at a thug selling drugs. He was a miserable man, probably wanted to end his hideous little life. We _all_ know that he wanted out,” Conrad says, gesturing to the empty air with his glass. “And what an out it was, found glassy-eyed and foaming from the mouth by the groundskeeper like this is a proper Victorian murder mystery. Or a game of _Cluedo.”_

“Conrad—”

Putting on a falsetto, Conrad ignores Nathaniel’s tired warning as he continues, “You are accusing me? Nurse White? With the lead piping? In the lounge?”

 _“Enough,”_ Peter says, as amusing as it is to torture Nathaniel with the nonsense. “Suicide or not, now that Jacob has passed, I am to assume Conrad is taking up his post. Now, that doesn't explain _why_ I am here.”

“Did you get a chance to ask the Institute about our conversation?” Nathaniel asks with zero pretense, though Peter is looking at Conrad who is rolling his eyes. 

“The bloody _Institute,”_ is grumbled under Conrad’s breath with a sigh attached. 

“...I did, and nothing has been whispered about us. If you would like to ask yourself now, I would suggest that, because I have a ship to get back to and _your_ cargo to deliver,” Peter says, using his hands for emphasis. “So can I get back to that?”

“I will be joining you, and we can discuss this further. Some in-person business has come up at your next destination, and I would rather handle it myself.”

Peter feels another flash of annoyance, but he doesn't talk back, knowing he has no say in the matter. He truly could not ask for a worse travel companion at a worse point in his life. “Fine, _great,_ have us on the next flight back to Dakar, then. This has thrown off our whole port schedule, so someone will need to clear our new itinerary with port authority in _many_ places.” Work that should not have to be done in the first place.

 _“Please,_ leave, so I can get back to not buying into your conspiracies and moving my stuff into Jacob’s office. I was thinking a Dalbergia wood desk? Maybe Purple Heart?” Conrad finishes his drink then, placing the glass on the corner of Nathaniel’s desk as he stands. “I will see you later brother, nephew,” he says the last word cheekily toward Peter as he straightens his suit jacket and heads out.

Leaving him alone with Nathaniel, Peter still a bit bewildered for having to come out here to escort him to a meeting. Typical. 

Except, Peter remains home for a _week_ while Nathaniel gets his affairs in order, The most dreadful, horrible week of having to be in the country that Peter had possibly ever lived through. Boring, but it left him with nothing to focus on but his own self, and the barrage of feelings that he cannot seem to shake. Anger, annoyance, restlessness, turning into shame and guilt after days of paranoia that somehow Elias would know he is home. That he would be angry at _him_ for what he had done. An inappropriate and foolish train of thought that disrupts Peter’s whole sense of his own loneliness. Consumed by thoughts of another person even when he is spending time in the forest behind the manor or in his own private Lonely, entirely antithetical to who he _is._

It is hell on earth, his only respite being the moment the airplane leaves the tarmac. That is when it feels like he can finally breathe again.

  


* * *

  


To a man of the Eye like himself, sleep was a suggestion, not an imperative. It was healthy to let the mind and body rest, and even on nights when sleep eluded him, Elias tried to lay down and be still for a couple of hours at least. Sometimes he would meditate. Sometimes his vision would go wandering. He has a good idea of what most of his employees' sleep schedules look like by now.

Elias Bouchard has not had a proper night's rest for five straight days.

It took alcoholic or other chemical assistance to get him sleeping, and even when he was, the rest was fitful and his dreams felt as real as the waking world. He was untethered in time. He was often not Elias then, or even James. His time was split between cities and across decades.

Some of the things he saw were real, once. Some things were twisted or fabricated. Elias is and was many people and does not want to be. He longs for his focus back, and his dedication to living as _Elias,_ in _this_ place, presently, _now._ Head of the Magnus Institute, in London. It shouldn't be difficult.

So he tried to reinforce his presence here by sticking to routine. He walked to the office and settled in to get things done. He took breaks when he needed them. And when the Institute was closed for the long weekend he tried to stick close to what he regularly did by running errands and getting shopping done. Elias Bouchard kept his life deliberately normal.

And still, he cannot sleep.

He tried reading. He watched a lot of television. More than once he went out walking at an ungodly hour of the morning.

Monday night finds him regrettably sober and fuming. Elias has been staring at his bedroom ceiling for a good portion of the past five hours. This isn't working. Trying to prove to himself that he could have a normal life is getting him nowhere.

Willfully crushing any and all thoughts of Peter Lukas isn't working. The marks he'd left him with have faded, but the mental torment has not.

At nearly 4 am, Elias dresses in his exercise clothes and heads down to his building's gym. Maybe if he could exhaust himself then he'd be able to get some rest.

Stretching is an easy routine to fall into. The room is private and there is a distinct lack of noise or distraction, so he automatically goes searching for some. Elias catches sight of himself in a mirror and checks his form. Sees the smudge of a yellow-brown bruise on the front of his throat.

_"But how did **you** feel afterward?"_

Elias watches himself scowl and rise to his feet. He thumbs at the bruise and damns his memory. This time, he's too drained to bother trying to suppress the sound of Peter's voice.

_"Did you feel empty?"_

He does. His chest feels hollow and he clasps his hands behind himself to roll his neck and stretch his shoulders. It reminds him of being handcuffed.

_"To be discarded, alone and shaken up without the gentle touch of a single soul to pull you out of that loneliness?"_

No thanks to Peter. Elias has to do that on his own. But it wouldn't be the first time—he's pulled himself out of worse. He knows who he is and what has worked for him before. If regimented structure isn't helping, then he would simply try something else.

_"Did that loneliness feel **clean**?"_

There is a purity to the quiet, but an old ache to it too. He tracks himself walking in the corner of his eye, passing from mirror-pane to mirror-pane. In the day it opens the room up, but in the low-lit night it stretches out, endless. A hollow, hungry place indeed. Elias doesn't wish to give it what it wants.

_"Clean of those who would not take you seriously, who did not understand who you were?"_

It's not like he could easily find friends to confide in. And as for therapists, he'd tried that, but he'd had to do so much verbal dancing around his issues that it hardly made the experience worth it. It's not paranoia if you _know_ that you are always being watched. His devotion is both a blessing and a curse. It makes sense that regular people would focus on that and _only_ that. As for those who _did_ understand, well, one of them had recently tried to murder him. So he isn't exactly inclined to go rekindling old connections at the moment.

_"Cleanliness is godliness, as they say."_

To a disciple of The One Alone, perhaps. Elias' patron feels differently. It loves vulnerability as much as it does detachment from its devotees. It Knows You needs that foothold there; that baring of the soul and deepest understanding of what it truly is to be Known. It does not want its people to be lenses. It wants them to be investigators, and a good investigator knows their field of study _personally._

_"Did it feel good to be a man alone on top of your knowledge?"_

It did, eventually, but it always took a lot of active effort to get him there. Soul-searching and sacrifice. Elias shakes out his sore wrists and cracks his knuckles. Steps up to the punching bag, forms a fist, and throws.

_"Godly?"_

Mortal, Elias thinks as the slam echoes in the room and the force recoils up his arm. Frail and mortal and so easily ended. Elias checks his form in the mirror and properly throws his hips into the next strike. Much better.

_"Did it feel good, **Jonah**?"_

That name does not belong in Peter's mouth. He did not know Jonah and never would, because Jonah Magnus was a _shell_ that he had long since discarded. Peter had _cheated_ his way into insights about him.

Elias is not that person. The punching bag buckles under the impact. He has grown beyond that. It shakes as it is struck several times in quick succession. His origins don't matter—his accomplishments do. He has _built_ something, over _lifetimes;_ made a _home_ for himself here. He's established _temples_ to Beholding and bled tears and time to its service. He'd consigned himself to a life of scrutiny and threat, all in the name of Knowledge. And he would do it all again.

When Elias' wrists buckle and his knuckles ache, he lays into the punching bag with knees and elbows instead. Elias doesn't need some Lonely _upstart_ still tormenting him days after the fact. He is _furious_ at how close he'd come to dying and the man responsible for that. Elias lashes out with a vicious kick and sees it connect with Captain Douglas Byrne in his mind's eye. He wishes he had the vision of Peter getting his teeth kicked in instead. But his imagination works just fine for that.

The assault does not stop until Elias gets dangerously unsteady on his feet, and he crumples under his own control. A hand goes out to stop the punching bag from smacking into him on a backswing. His nails rake down its abused surface as he lets it drop. He is panting, listening to both that and the blood pounding in his ears.

He feels... _present._ Solid. _Lively,_ even. Certainly better than he had coming in here. Elias wipes his eyes and, measure by measure, picks himself up off the floor.

  


* * *

  


The flights are _terrible._ Even the quickest one still has a layover in Marrakech that has delays at their connection, causing another two-day venture that had knocked Peter in total _eleven_ days off schedule. At the _very_ least, his uncle had made sure all of the port arrangements from here on out were switched around on the authority schedules for all of the subsequent stops he would have to make. Horrifically, instead of two days in Brazil as originally arranged on their itinerary, it had curiously turned into _fourteen._

Fourteen days, and Peter hadn’t the faintest clue _why_ Nathaniel was subjecting him to staying onshore for it or why he couldn't have done his business alone. 

Something to worry about later, because reflecting immediately in the aftermath, the flights were _awful._ Merely being in the sky in a screaming metal death trap had been bad enough, but he had to babysit his uncle who had, predictably, taken a fist full of sleeping pills so he could be knocked out for the duration. Two awful, _long_ flights that had screaming children in economy that were so loud that Peter could hear them even in first class. Unable to disappear unless he wanted to cause chaos, however _not_ being the center of attention was the goal unfortunately.

Worst of all, it had given him two days to feel _anxiety._ Peter had tried his absolute damnedest to bring the anger back, but the rot of anger seeping into his bones had gotten old. The weak annoyance only simmered down further into a sense of defeat, and then misery, boredom, and then the blossoming tension in his entire being that made him _restless_ with no way to expend it. No way to ignore it—every time he looked to his left, his uncle was peacefully snoring away tucked against the window, and then usually someone looking at him on his right from across the aisle. 

Peter could not get even a moment of rest, though the distance from London helped marginally. Anxiety turned into paranoia soon after though, and it had him wondering if he was being _watched._ While he had felt it before, every little pinprick on the back of his neck almost felt like he was being monitored. Rationally, Peter had been able to pick out the Eye before when he was the subject of attention, but having to suffer feeling like his skin is crawling, he was disgusted with the idea of being seen. 

It is shameful, to spend so much time on this; to not forget the incident had ever happened. He was _not_ being watched, and Elias was _not_ spending this much time dwelling on him. They both know to do so would be useless, and Peter would _never_ give him the same courtesy of keeping him on his mind.

So why can't Peter forget the way Elias stuck around to check in with him ever after he'd nearly been choked to death? Why can't Peter get the feel of Elias’ neck off of his hands? He can't stop seeing the brilliance of the Eye, the splendour reserved for _true_ believers, and it makes him want to take up residence in the Antarctic. To keep as much distance between himself and Elias as possible. 

Two days in airplanes and airports, feeling like he has never had so little energy in his life, as if the high of the _New Horizon_ has disappeared completely. Crashing and burning in a most insidious way, unable to process the litany of grief he is causing himself by not simply tossing the incidents to the side to forget about. Something that should be second nature to a man such as himself. 

The moment they are back in Dakar and boarding the _Tundra,_ Peter can finally sink back into comfortable numbness. The course is set, the crew is ready, and his uncle leaves him alone, sure. But his presence is unwanted, foreign in his domain, and he finds that he can't truly _relax._

Their destination once they leave Dakar is the port in Governador Celso Ramos, State of Santa Catarina in Brazil. It takes fifteen days due to the choppy mid-June sea storm they pass through. About six days in, there is one sailor that had been picked up in Suriname tragically lost during a calm spell when the fog rolled in thick. Poor lad hadn't made it to the lifeboat with the rest of the crew, and per usual nobody has the heart to mention it, least of all the Captain who has the letter sent to the family so they could grieve and feel the acute, crushing loss of their loved one. 

Two weeks is frankly an _absurd_ amount of time hanging around port, never mind that his uncle keeps him close by without calling on him. But just in case he _has_ to, Peter is sticking to the city. It’s a shame though that it is so _boring._ In this part of the world it is the middle of winter, however, the temperatures are still quite favourable. Like a gentle late spring day in the upper part of the northern hemisphere. 

It means that there are still plenty of tourists and happy locals out and about to be disrupting his attempts to be alone. Even in the most run-down bar has him suffering through a loud group of men who are unfortunately also loudly friendly with the owner, laughing uproariously over whatever they are talking about. His thoughts, then, become louder to try and drown it out, except his thoughts are now infuriatingly out of his control. His shame turns into denial. A pleading denial with himself to stop thinking about it, and to stop thinking about _him._

Louder and louder because the other customers in the bar will not stop talking and laughing and they will not shut _up._ A shame that he was not to cause too much untoward trouble, because swallowing all of these people up in their own private miseries all at once sounded quite ideal. Finishing his drink and standing up, Peter instead heads outside into the cool night air. 

The kind of weather one might leave the window open for, a thin quilt over your hips while you lay on your back in the dark contemplating, the quiet sounds of insects chirping away. An activity that Peter is becoming acquainted with as the days pass. Five days in, and Peter already feels like he’s going to snap—it’s eleven in the evening on a Tuesday night, and somehow the street is full of life. So instead he buys some cheap alcohol at a convenience store on the way back to the small room he has rented for the next two weeks. Rather than feeling like he's trapped in luxury in the hotel room Nathaniel booked for him, Peter is staying in a house where the rules in the newspaper ad said that after nine the tenants were to keep the noise down as they came and went and try not to use the electricity.

Suits his needs perfectly, except for the constant ruminating again over everything. He ends up falling asleep watching a nature documentary narrated in another language on an old fuzzy black and white television that looked at least like it was from the ‘70s. The static dripping in from an improperly set up wire hanger poking out of the top for reception is more comforting than not, at least. But the _restlessness_ is unbearable.

The next night has him sitting in a different type of establishment altogether after spending the previous night wondering if fucking someone else would get rid of this incessant thought cycle. Though night clubs aren't his thing by any means, the anonymity of being able to get a drink and blend into the background where nobody would bother you is appreciated. If everyone is loud, then not many would take special notice of him unless they _wanted_ to.

The music is loud and unrecognizable, and the people are all a blur. He can feel it though, the others who are unfamiliar with this atmosphere too and who are steadily panicking at being alone amongst a crowd. There is one in particular, a man in his late twenties perhaps, who especially has an air of loneliness to him that piques his interest. At least enough to buy him a drink.

The way he lights up is disgusting, as if finally finding a saviour for the night when truly, that is the complete opposite of the case. This man will not be going home, but Peter has his fun first. With an apparent limited knowledge of English on his prey’s end, Peter still does a fine job of getting them into the single-stall bathroom at the back of a hallway.

He must be the guy’s type by how quickly he gets on his knees and backs Peter up to the sink. Enthusiastic would be an understatement for how his cock disappears down the man’s throat. He knows what he's doing, but it is hard to relax still. The last time he had gotten sucked off had been by _Elias._

And right now Peter is comparing the two. Where Elias had choked, this guy takes him down to the root and moans around him. Something that should feel good enough to take his mind off of things, but it only does the exact opposite. There is a practiced ease to this situation that feels wrong now, like he is being watched. Paranoia and anxiety and shame overpowered by a fierce yearning to be fucking someone else’s throat.

He pulls his cock away and pats around his pockets for a condom, having come out this evening prepared for once. But even when his prey is crowded up to the sink and holding onto it for dear life as Peter fucks him from behind, he cannot focus on anything else but what his mind supplies for him. And it happens to be the look of pure fury on Elias’ face when he told him not to call him Jonah. It also supplies him with the memory of Jonah taunting Mordechai, disgust welling up at the scene playing back again for him for how powerless his ancestor had been. 

Peter sees the Eye in all of its glory. He can feel Elias’ neck in his grip, can feel him shuddering beneath him as he had _used_ him like he is using this stand-in right now. He ends up looking at himself in the mirror, the anger and denial written plainly on his own face. It only makes this worse, having to admit to himself that this is wholly unsatisfying. Even as the rest of the club drops away, the sound muffled to a point where it can’t be heard over their ragged breathing.

His patron is at his heels, ready for a sacrifice that is being prepped surprisingly well. As Peter starts going faster and harder with his hips, it is abundantly clear that there is no thought to pleasure for anyone other than himself. Normally that would _work_ —the spiralling depression of someone realizing that they are being _used_ would act as a balm for his tortured soul, but now? Peter finishes abruptly and pulls out, opening the Lonely and pushing his victim in without remorse. For good measure, he throws the used condom in there too before closing it and fixing himself up. 

Back to his rented room, back to getting no sleep while laying up with the window open and letting the slightly sweet and chilled night air in. 

Two weeks pass without Nathaniel needing him once, and otherwise without many incidents. Another few people go mysteriously missing without a trace, sure, but Peter tries not to overthink. He fails at every turn, to the point where he nearly gets curious enough about the statement Elias gave him to read it. He holds off though, still working his way through the shame and denial, trying to starve himself of whatever lingering fascination he has with Elias.

At one point he had tried again to find someone to fuck to try and get some other sexual relief, but his thoughts turned to Elias _again,_ and he could barely get his cock up. Not for the first time, he wonders if Elias would ever actually cash in on their bet. It seems unlikely now, even if Peter spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about being on his knees in front of him. 

Would they return to strictly business afterward? He would imagine so. Or would he make a fool of himself by continuing to long for someone who could ruin him. The thought of having to face consequences for his actions either by the Watcher or by Elias himself is enough to make him dread ever returning home. That nothing has happened to the family business makes him cautious to know if there would be any retaliation like that. Anyone who wanted to take the Lukas family down a notch could very well get information from the Institute if he had swayed Elias’ opinion into the negatives. 

And if that were the case, Peter would have to salvage that.

Something that is laughable at best, impossible at worst. It would depend on how Elias greets him next time they find themselves in a room together, which if Peter has any luck would not be anytime soon.

Two weeks of waiting and simmering and being consumed by a hunger that could not be sated, and _finally_ the _Tundra_ gets cleared for voyage with some new cargo aboard. Nathaniel books a flight with one of his business associates that would be making the trip back to England as well, so Peter is spared having to fly home and back _again._ With his uncle gone, Peter can breathe much more easily as they head back out onto the open sea.

  


* * *

  


Over the following days, before the anger and the relief of catharsis could fully fade from his mind, Elias went looking through the yellow pages and newspapers in search of something martially-focused. He knew himself well enough that anything with a particular focus on philosophy or a long time devoted to mastering the basics would bore him to tears. He wasn't looking to pick up a hobby—simply to find the shortest route to the kind of results that would make him feel safe in his skin again.

Elias found himself attending self-defence classes within the week. The instructor, Ronald Sinclair,1 had certain... idiosyncrasies. When he watched the class practice, he moved very little apart from the rotation of his head as he regarded them with a glossy-eyed stare. Most of the time, he would correct pupils' form with guiding touch first and verbal instruction as an afterthought. Elias knew the hallmarks of the Web when he saw them, so he'd done a bit of digging for his own peace of mind.

Ronald had been an Army man back in the '70s and '80s. Originally from Oxford where he'd had quite a few juvenile run-ins with the police. Nowadays he lived in London with a flatmate and taught classes like this several times a week. Nothing suspicious about him, unless one counted 'cleaning up his act surprisingly well.'

Elias had a talk with him once about why he started teaching. "I had a rough time growing up," Ronald said, "and if I can help other people feel safe, that's good, right?" Given his own reasoning for being there, Elias found that satisfactory. So he kept coming back.

Learning how to escape strangling attempts had been a particularly terrible day, as Elias had predicted. The combination of a dismal workweek leading up to it and being paired up with someone half his age and twice as strong made their hands around his neck into a particularly _trying_ experience. But he'd gotten through it. Elias ran through the steps enough times for it to become second nature and later, at home, he did some research on his own for how to deal with scenarios which had not been covered.

But it's good, all told. It helps. Over time, his ruthless practicality settles down into a sharp confidence. The bruises and sprains he picks up are minor inconveniences and easily outweighed by the sense of security he cultivates.

Ten weeks in, towards the end of the class, a visitor comes by to watch. He's a great hulk of a man, and to look upon his form makes the word _moulded_ come to mind. His clinging tracksuit is bright red, and Elias is reminded of a red suit he saw several months ago. But whatever he wants—if he even _is_ here for him—it can wait until after he's done and changed back into his street clothes.

The man locks eyes with Elias as he's stepping out of the changing room, holding something akin to suspicion in them. Elias doesn't let that disturb him as he steps up and extends his arm for a handshake. "Mr. Hopworth, I presume?"

A careful pause. "Yeah." The handshake is strong, but mercifully not bruisingly so. "How'd you know that?"

"The Fairchild wedding," Elias pleasantly says. "Although I don't believe we've had the pleasure of being formally introduced. Shall we take this conversation outside?"

Elias leads the way out once he is released from Jared's grip and watches him follow to a stone bench outside that was not all designed for comfort. At least the evening breeze is refreshingly cool. "I'm Elias Bouchard," he says by way of introduction. "Head of the Magnus Institute."

"Right." The name is apparently new information to Jared, given the way he nods. "One of my mates said there was some weirdo with an eye tattoo showing up to classes. Figured it'd be one of you lot."

Elias responds with a genial smile. He doesn't make to turn around and show it off at all—surely Jared had spotted it earlier. "My apologies if he found it unnerving."

"What're you doing 'ere? Self-defence," Jared says with a damp scoff. "You're a _librarian."_

Elias' smile fades, just a little. Turns into something back-footed and cautiously sinister. "I know the Fairchilds, don't I? I work with some interesting people, so it pays to be prepared. I promise you, Mr. Hopworth, that there's nothing deeper to it."

Jared hums, considering. He looks Elias over and thinks on what he'd observed in the gym. "Sure. I saw you. You're not bad."

"Thank you. I'm new, admittedly."

"Wanna practise with some folks who'd come at you for real?"

Elias isn't sure about that grin he sees on Jared. That's an awful lot of teeth. "These 'folks' wouldn't happen to be Ukrainian, would they?"

"Maybe. Mostly." More teeth show, if that's even possible.

"I'll think about it," Elias deflects. It'd be a useful exercise in theory if it weren't blatantly _suicidal._ He's had enough of real-world physical danger for a while, thank you. "I'd like to get my bearings first."

"Fair enough." _Something_ in Jared crackles during the spectacle that is him rising to his feet—possibly several somethings. "Lemme know if you change your mind."

Elias almost says something along the lines of, 'there are easier ways to find librarians to brutalize if your people have an appetite for it,' but he doesn't. They don't have that kind of a rapport, and Elias isn't sure if Jared would interpret it as the joke it's meant to be. Instead, Elias simply picks up his gym bag, tells him, "Certainly. Good evening to you," and leaves.

  


* * *

  


Standing out on deck with the salty air spitting in his face from the waves crashing against the hull of his ship, it is the third morning in a row that Peter has found himself smoking out in the open air. The radar showed them sailing right into some rough weather from the mid-Atlantic storm systems starting to develop off the coast of Africa before swinging out on the Atlantic corridor; they would hit it in about a day’s time, if the tracking is correct. Thankfully the crew has the time to prepare, because no matter which way they went unless they went back, they would be hit by rough weather. If they stuck it out on their course, they would sail through the outer arm of it on the northeast side before the really heavy rain hit.

The whole situation gives Peter something to focus on, definitely a good thing since otherwise he would be foolishly overthinking _everything_ while cooped up in his quarters. As it is, when he has finally made sure all of their cargo is secure and heads to check in with his first mate, the man gives him a searching look. 

“Something to say?”

“I feel like I should be asking _you_ that, Lukas.”

“Then it's a good thing you haven't,” Peter says with a snort. “The deck is clear, everything has been double-checked.”

“And everything below on the hold is secure, we should hit in about eight hours,” he checks something off on his clipboard, and then walks off to give instructions to other crew members. 

Fair, and fine. Peter readies himself for the rough seas in his quarters. The only problem being that now that he has just shy of a month to spend to himself on a single journey, the realization that he has yet to read the statement Elias gave him about the _New Horizon_ is still sitting in his bag inside the folder. It taunts him. Sitting there waiting to be read by him. To acknowledge that Elias had done his part, and that it had led to ...that. 

The curiosity _burns_ him. It nearly makes him cross his room during the storm. By the twentieth day of brooding in cycles, he almost breaks. It is not until they make it to port in Lisbon, Portugal four days after, exactly one hundred days since he had left England, that is when the tension is unbearable. 

While everyone is onshore for their brief day’s respite, Peter sits in his cabin, having had quite enough of wrestling with himself before he grabs the folder from where it has been resting on his desk. He had picked up the folder many times, but sitting on his bed, he opens it now and takes out of the folder sheets of paper.

It is a photocopy, but the penmanship is _exquisite._ Almost hard to read, but he squints at it and gets a sense of the writing style quickly enough. Reading it, Peter goes through a wide range of emotions that are extremely hard to place, but _oh_ it is perfect. Lovingly crafted, he might say if his emotional range understood that far. 

There are details in this that Peter had _missed,_ that reading now leaves him _shaking._ Finer details omitted and yet written around so clearly and thoroughly that Peter closes his eyes and imagines the romanticized version of his massacre playing out perfectly. 

Every line leaves him hooked more than the last, every word digging in deeply and almost wistfully. The ink on the page fills him up, threatening to spill over as his victims' fates play out. It reads like every detail was meticulously chronicled from every angle, and in a sense they _were._

Elias had written it in such a careful manner; as if it were one of his ghost stories from some fool compelled to feed their statement to the Institute. And it is about _Peter,_ each word sculpting an image that is to be admired. The inhumanity of it all digging its claws into Peter from start to finish, cheeringly describing one of the greatest thrills of his life.

And all it serves is to let him know again that _yes,_ he had fucked up quite thoroughly. Thinking about it makes him ache in ways he can't even describe, but it fills him with a horrid desire to see Elias. A stupid idea, since Peter has nothing to say to him. 

The yearning comes back full force, but it is laced with much more inconvenient feelings that Peter has no name for. A continuous cycle of agony that he has not been able to quiet for even a moment. It is unfortunate that from Lisbon back to Portsmouth it is another seven days on the sea, going slow since their arrival needs to be delayed due to port authority having near-full docks for a couple of days. 

By the time they are back in England, Peter feels like he is in shambles. Having read and reread the statement and overthinking and overanalyzing everything that had happened after, Peter decides that the next time he sees Elias will be the last. Family business be damned, he would send someone else to participate in Institute matters. 

If anything concerns one Elias Bouchard going forward, Peter Lukas wants no part of it.

  


* * *

  


It wasn't the best idea, perhaps, going in to have his nipples pierced while he was still early into regular training. But between them being simple barbells and wearing heavy undershirts, Elias didn't have that many issues with them. Actually getting them done had made for an amusing little evening—the last time had been nearly twenty-five years back, in '73. The place he found was much less punk than the one James had his done in. Stepping in there, Elias found himself agreeing with the 'studio' part of the advertised name. His utter directness combined with his work-appropriate attire raised a couple of eyebrows, naturally.

His tattoo did get some compliments, though: "It looks so realistic! Almost like it's following me around the room."

"Funny, that's what I was going for."

And it was nice, back at home, to see something that hinted at the familiar whenever he saw himself in the mirror. Moving into a new place and putting up posters, as it were. In a few months he'd be able to wear some of his old jewelry again—and the convenient thing about switching forms was that he didn't have to find new pieces to colour-coordinate with his eyes.

Not wanting his piercings irritated for the first while gave an unintentionally valid excuse for keeping out of the nightlife scene for a time. Elias didn't want to risk his damnably delicate mental state by taking chances on sexual encounters when that _infuriating_ evening was still fresh in his mind. He processed it by pieces, justifying his own actions and finding likely excuses for some of Peter's. He focused on the good parts and tried to distance himself from the bad.

He does not forget that Peter Lukas is more dangerous than he'd given him credit for.

But he heals, in ways both expected and unconventional. Time passes and he spends time indulging old interests.

For one, Elias loves picking up closeted men.

He takes a great bear of a man back to a rented hotel room. Fucks him deep and slow and calls him by the same pet names he hears from his wife. Elias pulls things out of his head and tells them back to him; the guilty glances, the furtive young kisses, the sneaking around he's done behind her back to get to places like this. It makes him weep, and Elias kisses his tears away. Tells him that this is better, isn't it, and that she doesn't need to know, and that he can keep a secret. Elias thinks about the demons in literature—tempters, _liars._ Infernal jailers.

Elias thinks about Millbank. He has a good time of the evening.  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Footnotes:**  
>  1 Ronald Sinclair gave the statement in MAG 59: Recluse. He was one of the teens living at Hill Top Road back in the ‘60s. He’d be in his early fifties during this time period. [return to text]
> 
> what up it's jen, you can find me on tumblr @jennyloggins, and on twitter at both @somegarbageisok on main and @slimejen for tma/video game posting.
> 
> Leto can be found on tumblr @auto-didact (general) and @divorcecravat (TMA).
> 
> **Content warnings:**  
>  Canon-typical murder, predatory sexual behaviour (not in a criminal sense), and trauma.  
> Mentions of asphyxiation, murder, and suicide. [return to top]


	8. Suffering Bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias cashes in on his bet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 has a podfic of the statement now! Go, go, [check it out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23059855/chapters/56799604).
> 
> Click to view content warnings.

“Oh, well, _excuse_ me Peter, while you have been out at sea on your little self-reflection vacation, the rest of us have had to do a _lot_ of shit we don't want to,” Conrad says as he pops another grape into his mouth. 

Peter has been back for less than a day, and already he feels _impossibly_ stifled. First by his proximity to London, and then by his uncle’s insistence on a breakfast meeting—Conrad’s, which Nathaniel actually _agreed_ with. So here he is seated with the both of them, trying to find _any_ excuse to skip this. 

“Can't you take this one and I will do the next one? I have an appointment… elsewhere.”

“You don't, actually, because I have checked your appointment book and it is _blank._ I don't know why you are making this so difficult Peter, I went to Judith’s book premiere. I also went to _your_ niece’s graduation from university _and_ the baptism of her son Evan. My brother has gone to countless charity banquets, and what have _you_ done lately for the family?” Conrad counts on his fingers as he speaks, and Peter rolls his eyes. 

“I do _plenty._ I spent the last four months hauling our cargo to make us _money._ And I went to the Fairchild wedding, that has to count for doing things for our family,” Peter says with a sigh, picking up his glass and taking a drink from it.

“Which I also went to,” Nathaniel says dourly. “You are overdue. All you have to do is go there and make sure Chester does not embarrass the family with whatever trite film he has dreamed up in that disordered head of his. I do not want my son to cause us any more humiliation than he already has.”

Conrad sighs in Nathaniel’s direction, Peter catching him rolling his eyes as well. He then directs his attention back to Peter and says, “Peter, it's four hours of your time maximum. All you have to do is show up, watch **Lesley’s** movie, and then you can come back home and sulk until Nate lets you back out onto the sea. You can handle this.”

It feels like a pep talk that he's being talked down to on, but the emphasis is noted. If Nathaniel goes he runs the risk of causing a scene, and everyone else who could possibly go is indisposed. The proximity of the festival’s location to the last place he wants to be is concerning, but he knocks back the rest of his vodka tonic and puts the glass down on the table perhaps a bit harder than necessary as he grinds out, “Fine.”

“Great! It’s in three days, so you have _plenty_ of time to prepare,” Conrad says with a clap of his hands. “Glad it has been decided.”

“And now onto other business,” Nathaniel chimes in, now that this problem has been resolved. “I heard back from my contact in Brazil, Heloisa. She has secured a chain of supply for us for your… exploits.”

“Oh, for my drug lab? First-rate.” Conrad swirls around his drink in his glass before pointing it out toward the center of the table as a gesture of emphasis. “So when do we start getting my ingredients? I want to get working on this as soon as possible.”

“We have yet to make any decisions, especially because I am not sending any of my other ships out—this is something Peter will haul.” As usual, there is no room for argument in Nathaniel’s tone, which Peter would not be doing regardless. 

“Great, fine, I don't really care about the particulars of all of this,” Peter says with a vague wave of his hand at the air. “Can I go now?”

“If you _must,”_ Conrad says, shooing him off. “It’ll be better that way anyway, actually. Go on then, _goodbye.”_

Peter does not need to be told twice, heading out so he can languish in his own anxieties and dread. 

Luckily, by the time the day has come, Peter has gotten over it again. Quite well, if he says so himself. So _what_ if the festival is just on the outskirts of London, and so what if he would have to make a brief appearance? The likelihood of him running into a single person he knows is extremely low in the first place. Four hours of his time tops, like Conrad said.

When the invitation to the film festival afterparty first comes across his desk, Elias nearly dismisses it out of hand. The Institute was only on their mailing list because he'd attended it last year for explicitly work purposes—Gertrude had gotten wind of a possible Leitner being sold at the silent auction, and he'd accompanied her to the event as backup. On that count, she had been both correct and successful in purchasing it, and the 1897 Sears Roebuck Catalog now sits in Artefact Storage. Elias had come out of the evening with some new contacts, though he wished he'd had the chance to actually _view_ more of the films so he could better make conversation. But it hadn't been that bad of an experience, all things considered. He'd certainly attended much dryer events.

Over lunch, he idly looks through the events flyer which had accompanied the invitation, seeing if there's anything of interest in there. It's a name and not a title that draws his eye first: a "Lesley Lukas", director of a new short film simply entitled "Hallowed." He's aware that the name is a possible coincidence—he doesn't know any Lukases off-hand who go by that name—but given it's the film industry, it could also be a pseudonym. The film description is _eerie_ though, and eerie in a recognizable sort of way. Suppose he has plans for next weekend, then.

Elias does a bit of research in the meantime but doesn't come up with much of anything. Even his spying on Lesley herself doesn't reveal anything terribly useful. Pity, but that's just how things go sometimes.

Following a Sunday matinée, Elias drives back home to grab something to eat, clean himself up, and change into a more evening-appropriate suit. It's one of his newer ones in a dove grey, and although he leaves behind the waistcoat he does select a basic white for the shirt. The tie and pocket square are showy enough already—shiny emerald paisley on a crimson background. While he's dressing, he looks in on Peter Lukas for the first time in many months to see him similarly attired, killing time near the event space until it formally started. Elias is a bit taken aback by that—he likes to think he'd _notice_ if they'd been sitting in the same theatre, but perhaps they'd been to different screenings. That answers his question about Lesley, then.

Elias... isn't entirely sure about what to do. He's still going to _go,_ naturally. He doesn't know where Peter stands with him, and nor has he really cared to find out. Hell, he isn't sure what _his_ current opinion is like. There's still some bitterness there, certainly. But Elias has moved on, he likes to think, and it's natural for him to want to _demonstrate_ how much he has moved on.

He doesn't rethink his earlier accessory choices of the anemone flower cufflinks and stud earrings, worked in bone and black enamel. And he does bring along certain other supplies, just in case.

Acknowledging or engaging with Peter Lukas is low on his list of priorities once he arrives at the banquet hall, however. Both yesterday and earlier today Elias had caught a few of the short film screenings, and now he works to track the staff responsible for them down. Elias engages the guests with a diplomat's grace, mixing flattery with interest. It's played up, certainly, but not dishonest—he's always had an admiration for the art of storytelling.

He doesn't have to embellish his enthusiasm much when chatting up the director and screenwriter of a religious horror film he'd sat through the day before. “Some of the possession scenes were _quite_ chilling,” he says. “It's difficult to show the victim's perspective in a visual medium, and I thought you did a marvellous job. Just the _thought_ of being trapped in your own body, controlled by somebody else? And when it's done so subtly that you're not sure if that's _you_ acting or some other presence forcing your hand? _That's_ the truly terrifying part.”

Elias goes on, talking about his academic interests, smoothly transitioning that into explaining what the Magnus Institute is and what an excellent resource its library can be to aspiring creatives. And, naturally, he passes out Institute business cards. He's been doing a lot of that tonight.

The film itself? It is… weird to take in. It tells the tale of a woman growing up with a childhood that had been completely lacking in warmth and love. It is true to life for his uncle’s daughter, he has no doubt about that, but it lacks any identifying information about the family itself, which suits his need to report back just fine. Other than that, he had to stick around for the brief Q&A, which again did not give away any identifying information about the family, so that should have been the end of it. 

But, to his _immense_ shock, he had seen _Elias._ In passing, a brief glimpse, but it made his turmoil come back with a _vengeance._ Of course, he had turned and all but run away from the scene and gone back to his hotel to debate whether or not he wanted to just go home now and avoid going to the afterparty he had an invite for. He was not expected to go to _that,_ but some part of him knows Elias will be there for the drama of it all. And if he's there, then perhaps he could get whatever mood this is out of his system by confirming that he is hated so he can be done with this. 

The film itself haunts him as he gets ready, a nice change of pace from his usual thoughts lately, but hitting _very_ close to home. The early childhood part had been entirely loveless and hard, and Peter knows that certain things about it go over his head since his childhood had been much the same, and he _is_ fond of the outcome. While the protagonist had felt caged, Peter had thrived, he is sure of this. Because he is thriving _now,_ devoted to his God and to keeping his family in a position of power to better serve said patron.

Lesley did not understand, nor did the film character. It lead through her life being sent away, through the struggles and joys, the highs and lows of being vulnerable with friends and lovers. Perhaps it is an autobiographical tale, or perhaps a wishful thinking optimism piece, but people had stood up at the end of the screening he had been in and they clapped for it. Whistles and cheers, enough to make Peter’s skin crawl for how the audience celebrated the triumph of connections over being solitary. A love story that shows a filled void, something Peter would _never_ see the appeal of.

Until he had seen Elias again, even in passing. Looking fine, _jovial_ even. Noticeably healthier looking too, more trim. Not for the first time, Peter wonders what he has been doing in their time apart. Would he be there tonight? Would Peter be approached? What would they say to one another?

A line of thought that does not help him, and that foolishly makes him get dressed in a neater looking, dark blue suit. It mostly fits correctly, wrinkling up around the shoulders a bit from where the sleeves are stiff. Peter had also been forced to get a beard trim so _he_ didn't end up embarrassing the family either; his hair is long enough now to put the top part in a smart, short tie to get the fringe out of his eyes. All in all, cleaned up to a reasonable degree, even if part of him wanted to put his hat back on. 

Almost chickening out, Peter forces himself out of his room and finds his way to the afterparty. His first course of action is going to the bar to get a drink to knock back, and then he finds a nice corner to stand around in.

Elias doesn't need his otherworldly sight to know that Peter's skulking around the periphery—his intuition is enough for _that._ Deliberately, he avoids him. Before he goes to get himself a drink, he scans the area around the bar to make sure he's not in the vicinity, which is easy to do given the man's height relative to the crowd. An hour and several pleasant little chats later Elias still has not yet been approached.

Which is fine by him, to be honest, because then that means he gets to be a _problem._

Elias goes to introduce himself to Lesley next, and he is so very interested about the inspiration behind her movie. And more than that, he is _sympathetic_ towards the kind of upbringing that she must have had because he'd read that little interview in the paper about _Hallowed_ being "inspired by real events." He even does his little routine of slipping her a business card and letting her know—no pressure, of course—that if she has any unexplainable events still gnawing at her that aren't exactly therapist material, that the process of giving a statement can be a cathartic way to get that off her chest.

And then he cuts right to it and asks if there's a _"Peter Lukas"_ in her family.

There is something so deliberately sinister about this man she is talking to, but Lesley indulges his line of questioning. Actually, he proves to be rather pleasant to talk to, and she knows that she will possibly seek out the Institute to talk about some very strange happenings from her childhood from before she was sent away. If she’s honest, it’s nice to be taken seriously for once, especially by a man approaching her about her art. Refreshing, too.

The conversation is even fun before a tangible name of a family member is brought up. She doesn’t even try to hide her grimace of distaste for the man she barely knew beyond that he was entrenched in the family dealings. “Peter? I have not seen him in over fifteen years, but I do remember bits and pieces of him. Why, are you two acquainted?”

Meanwhile, Peter has been keeping to himself besides a visit or two to the bar while he watches from the sidelines to see what Elias is doing. To an extent Lesley as well, that is, until he sees Elias approach her. By this time, he has had long enough to stew over what he may say, but that had been contingent on Elias catching him alone— _not_ interrupting a conversation between him and his estranged cousin. 

It takes some deliberation, but Peter makes the decision to step over and do just that right when he hears his name. “Fifteen years? I suppose it has been that long,” Peter says while narrowing his eyes at Elias.

Once he's through with the fake-surprise reaction to Peter showing himself, Elias meets his almost-glare with a mild little frown. A 'why are you giving me that look' sort of thing.

"Acquainted through work," Elias explains. To Lesley, at least, he's perfectly friendly. To Peter, his tone leans cloying. "Did you catch the movie, Peter? What did you think?"

“No doubt that it is an embarrassing and inaccurate portrayal of the Lukas family name,” Lesley says, rolling her eyes into her champagne glass as she takes a drink. 

“It was either me or your father, and the decision was made to spare you the discomfort of the latter,” Peter says, pointedly not looking at Elias while he seems to be playing some sort of game. He will _not_ be doing this in front of a family member.

“Oh, _thank_ you, my knight in shining armour,” Lesley pauses to mock-clap, sarcasm dripping from her. “But, _please,_ tell us what you thought, cousin of mine. What will you be telling my father?”

This conversation is as awkward as their last one, years ago at a funeral she had attended since the extended family member she was staying with was also obliged to go to. She had been absolutely miserable then, but the confidence is rolling off of her in waves right now. It almost makes Peter feel envious, how she was able to become herself on her own terms, away from familial obligation. If there is one thing Peter would ever want, it’s to sever the ties of family and exist on his own entirely. 

But he answers after his pause to take a sip of his drink. “You captured the bleakness of the family quite well. Nothing identifying us, and overall a film that will not embarrass the Lukas name. And even if it did, I _really_ don’t care much. Otherwise, the narrative was engaging enough, and it was well put together.”

Blinking in surprise, Lesley says, “Huh. Have you gone soft then, Peter? I almost heard a genuine note of pride for me there.”

Elias is _living_ for this, and he's not even the one who's making Peter feel uncomfortable. Good on Lesley for having the courage to stand up to her family. Respectfully, he lets them have their exchange, and waits for a lull in the conversation before he speaks.

He's showing his hand a bit by saying, "This would be Nathaniel, wouldn't it," but at least putting it out there for confirmation makes it less creepy than if he'd simply assumed. "Ah, Peter, what was it that you said behind his back before? Literally as _soon_ as he was out of the room. 'Positively dreadful,' I believe?" He's playing, for he knows that he's quoting correctly. Mind like a steel trap, this one.

Peter... isn’t sure what game Elias is playing now, first with being antagonized, and now with making him look even marginally better in an estranged family member’s eyes? If that is even how she takes the comment; Lesley is looking at him for confirmation, even. “I did, yes, and my opinion remains unchanged. He continues to be a menace to the family for ‘the greater good.’” A load of rubbish the greater good seems to be these days, but perhaps it's better that she not know about their... shadier dealings.

For a moment, his cousin gives him a searching stare, but Peter is instead focused on how Elias looks up close. He’s certainly cleaned up even more since he last saw him, and now that he has a clear view, he looks... striking. That is the only word for it. His suit is cut perfectly, tailored to him down to the tiniest detail. The colours of his tie stand out, but it is the earrings and matching cufflinks that draw his eyes especially. 

Anemones. 

_Interesting._

“So you weren’t saying that for my benefit then, I appreciate that, Peter.” She makes a split-second decision to pry a bit into his life, not without cutting deep. “And what about you? I am sure you have been busy getting married and producing children like my father also wanted of me before he sent me away.”

Gritting his teeth, Peter is drawn back to reality as he says, “No wife, no children that I know of or am responsible for.”

“Better that way, I suppose.” Finishing her drink off, she places the empty glass on the refuse tray of a passing server. “It was very nice to meet you Mr. Bouchard, but I do see someone else I wanted to chat with before the night is up.” Nodding her head, she finishes with, “Peter,” and walks off.

"Have a good evening." Elias sees her off with a little wave.

Elias takes a half-step away to face and get a decent look at Peter, now that it's just the two of them. The suit could use a bit of work, although he wouldn't say it's _bad._ Better than business wear, but worse than at the Fairchild wedding. Which makes sense, given the whole Lukas aesthetic is to avoid making waves at all costs. He does like what he's done with the beard, though.

"Yes, how _did_ you get out of being married?" It wouldn't do to continue being this level of antagonistic if he actually wants an answer to that question, so Elias tones it down. "I'm honestly curious about that one. Is it really as simple as all the travel you do?" _Or do you get special privileges,_ but Elias doesn't say that.

“Being the favoured son counts for something, apparently,” Peter says truthfully, _very_ aware of how close they are standing now that their third party has gone. The question brings back memories of him being hounded about it a decade prior when Nathaniel thought he held any sway over his personal life like that. Given a portfolio of matches that he rejected from the start, no matter how enticingly in line with his goals a potential wife might have seemed. His tastes, though, lie obviously elsewhere, and trying to force it did not work.

He has no idea how Conrad does it, having a wife and having lain with her enough times to produce multiple children, then having his lover on the side who obviously meant much more to him. A fate he had refused to suffer, and sailing is a convenient excuse to latch onto. “I am nearly always at sea—it does not make for even a dysfunctional home life.”

Alone, now, with the object of his every last thought for the past near four months, Peter can feel himself sweating entirely unrelated to the humidity in the air on this mid-September night, “Now, I think I have worn myself out for much else, so I am leaving.” He is near half-panicked now, Elias in front of him and giving him his full attention. So rather than confront this, Peter is inclined to flee. Then again, he oddly feels like the situation with Lesley was the honey in the flytrap he has potentially found himself stuck in.

"No, you aren't." Elias has no power of compulsion in his voice, but his tone makes it _distinctly_ clear that he will entertain no argument. It's sweet that Peter thinks it's fine to flee yet again when he's been doing that for _literal months._ He's caught Peter off-guard in a way that he doesn't think he's going to be able to manage for a while, and he is not about to squander the opportunity.

"You're going to wait for me outside, and then I'm going to join you for a smoke. You owe me that, at least." There's nothing particularly salacious about the way he says it, but Elias is sure his wording is enough to get the point across.

Peter had been about to argue, but, well... Elias is unfortunately right in this, he _does_ owe him at least that. Whether or not to indulge it brings him back through the last few months of his grief in a flash. Being alone with him is something Peter is _dreading,_ but the tone of his voice asks for no nonsense. Personally, Peter doesn’t want to find out what the unspoken ‘or else’ would mean for him.

“Well, alright then. I suppose I will wait outside,” Peter says as he finishes his drink and takes a page out of his cousin’s book, dropping the glass in a passing server’s tray. That taken care of, he gives Elias a polite nod and turns on his heel to leave the room. 

Finding his way outside is easy enough: same way he had come in, and Peter picks the least busy direction to head in, standing at the corner of the building and leaning against the brickwork in the relative darkness. He nearly lights a cigarette for himself, but the last thing he wants right now as his nerves are making his stomach flip is to give Elias a reason to make some trite comment like not waiting for him to light up. But he does overthink, waiting much longer than he would like and yet not making a move to disappear and leave since it would likely end worse next time they would apparently inevitably meet.

Elias keeps Peter waiting through a trip to the men's room, though that is fortunately all. He's already done his networking for the evening and he doesn't want to risk Peter deciding to disappear. When he gets out there he briefly thinks that he _did,_ but the flash of annoyance is arrested by the sight of Peter's frame, off skulking in the shadows. A nod to him, a quiet, "Come along," and with a hand on the small of his back, he guides Peter to walk along a narrow stone path on the side of the building.

This isn't the first event Elias has been to at this particular venue, and he knows that there's a patio and garden around back. He takes a moment to arrange the space by pushing the low table away from the floor-length rattan loveseat, making room. Beyond the French doors, scarcely fifteen feet away, the party is visibly still going. But they are alone out here for now, and at least the party's speaker setup partially blocks the doors regardless of whether or not they're locked. Elias doesn't check.

He sits down, facing away from the building. Drops an outdoor cushion at his feet because he's feeling magnanimous. "There. Now, I know that _I'd_ like a cigarette." Elias expectantly holds out his hand. "If you don't mind."

Very suddenly, Peter is _nervous_ when he is approached by Elias, the feeling deepening at the overly familiar gesture of a touch of a hand to his back. If this were anyone else perhaps, Peter would have already vanished or left or done something else entirely related to the Lonely, but he walks with Elias until they are behind the building. The setup implies evening parties out back, but they are alone for now.

The realization that Elias is cashing in is not lost on him, especially with the cushion thrown at his feet between his legs. There is no room for misunderstanding, and having agonized for months over this, it’ll be good to _finally_ get it over with so he can go back to his normal life and never have to think about this again.

The way Elias holds out his hand feels like a command, and Peter _hates_ how it makes him smoulder. Actually, he can’t find a single reason that this will be enjoyable for him after what he had done, but still the anticipation that had built is making him feel a shameful fire deep inside. Everything about this down to the sounds of people and music is making him want to run from this, but a bet is a bet, and he had lost, so he will accept the consequences.

Taking out his cigarettes, Peter plucks one out of the pack and puts them back into his pocket, putting it to his own mouth to light up and taking a drag before handing it over as he stays standing. He doesn’t want to seem _eager_ or anything like that.

In the time it takes for Peter to light up, Elias divests himself of his suit jacket, folding it neatly and draping it over the back of the loveseat. It's not too warm for him yet, but given that he intends to be sitting out here for a while, he may as well sort that out early. Having a fuller range of motion is useful, too.

As he accepts the cigarette and takes a long drag of his own, Elias tries to get a proper read on Peter. He doesn't look confused about why they're here in the slightest, so that's something. Full of nervous energy, though. There are plenty of possible reasons for that, and Elias isn't sure which of them contribute and to what degree.

Were Peter anyone else, Elias would straight-out _ask_ how he's been doing and encourage honesty over politeness. But Peter's established himself as being closed off when it comes to heavy topics. _Brooding,_ more like. He hasn't said a word out here yet, and that in itself says a lot.

Elias pointedly gives a look towards one of the other seats in wordless invitation for Peter to take it, if he likes. Less awkward than simply standing there.

"I'll be honest with you: I don't want to have this conversation. _You_ don't want to have this conversation." A small gesture with his cigarette hand; a little trail of smoke. "But I also don't want to have sex while there's an elephant in the room. I know where _my_ head is at. I'm not sure about what's been going on with you. But I'd like to be the bigger man here and extend an apology."

Elias takes another long drag to collect his thoughts. Deliberately, he does not quite make eye contact with Peter, since he knows that can be intense enough at times to get people to flinch. "I apologize for my conduct the last time we met. And for showing your those visions in particular. I was angry, sure, but that was uncalled for and you didn't agree to that. So I'm sorry." It takes a terrible amount of self-control to not be snippy about saying it, but Elias would like to think he managed that alright.

Peter takes the invitation to sit warily, having expected to be told to kneel so they could get this over with. Elias, though, is _intimidating_ sitting there looking at him with a lit cigarette. What he says though feels like the man has gone for his kneecaps, and it takes a few seconds to process that _he_ is apologizing. 

_Why?_

“And you didn’t agree to nearly be choked to death for it.” No apology falls from him, at least, not _yet._ “So I must admit that I am a touch surprised you have brought me out here and sat me down for a chat. I drew the conclusion that whatever is going on between us will end with your bet winnings, Elias. I have every intention of being done with you after this.” He sounds much more confident than he feels, remembering the statement and how it had been written as if smitten with his atrocities. The incident is no longer so fresh on his mind, but this is not how he imagined any of this would go.

Elias is not at all surprised that Peter does not apologize in kind. An acknowledgement is fine for now, and keeps him from getting _too_ bitter about it. "That's a fair assumption to make," he says, level and inscrutable. "If you thought I'd hold a grudge, then you would be correct. It's probably fortunate that you are who you are." Professionally involved with the Magnus Institute, he means. Consequences for rash action go both ways.

"But," Elias starts up again, "I dislike actively disliking you. It's inconvenient. So there's that."

The last bit makes Peter visibly confused, eyebrows knitting together. The things he’d forced on Peter felt much less invasive than Elias perceives them to be, but nearly killing him was entirely uncalled for. Hearing that he’s been in a sense forgiven? It only raises his suspicions. “I would say the sentiment is returned, but it is inconvenient to think of you at all. I have made up my mind, and once this,” and Peter gestures between them for this situation, “is done? So am I, besides whatever professional courtesies we may have to suffer in the future.”

All of that is _very_ wishful thinking, in Elias' view. Peter's wording also says a _lot_ about his opinions on whatever kind of relationship they have. It's so much of a far cry from how they'd interacted before things went awry that Elias has to assume Peter is doing it deliberately.

He's _scared._ Of getting _attached._

Well isn't _that_ just precious.

It's a good thing that Elias is too kind to point that out. He just nods, taps the ash out, and shifts in his seat to get more comfortable. "Shall we get on with it, or did you have anything else you'd like to say?"

For once, Peter feels like he has done enough talking, _especially_ to Elias. He has done enough talking and thinking and agonizing, so this would be _good_ for him. Get it out of the way, get it out of his system, and go home to wipe the slate clean.

It is a good mantra to keep in mind as he shakes his head. “No, I’d rather we get on with it.” As if the burden of sucking Elias off would be a cruel thing to bear instead of something that he has been nearly dreaming of. Of all of the routes he could choose, Peter puts the spotlight on denial in every capacity while also refusing to put a name to the emotion. He does not need Elias in his life in anything more than a professional capacity, and even then, he could let other members of his family handle that. Peter is _done._

Peter takes the opportunity to take his suit jacket off too as he stands up, the stiffness in the shoulders proving to restrict him far too much as a baseline. He would rather not have to deal with it while on his knees handling cock. With his foot, he moves the cushion closer to where he wants it before kneeling down on it, hesitating a moment before he reaches for Elias’ belt.

Elias neither encourages nor reprimands Peter for starting to undress him. Simply shuffles in closer and sits there looking pensive.

"Last time, before all of the... _unpleasantness,_ let's say—I was actually having a pretty good time. I'd like to think our respective patrons also did." When Peter gets to the underclothes, Elias helps him along by unbuttoning the front of the briefs and pulling out his cock and balls. He'd prefer to stay clothed for this, apparently. "So I thought I'd like to try my hand at feeding your god. With your permission, naturally." He says it airily, but he does actually mean it. Grudge aside, he has other ways of revenging himself a bit if Peter isn't into this one.

He isn’t sure if he likes the sound of that, but Elias is the one setting the terms of this arrangement. It is unfortunately fair, considering last time’s happenings. Before he meets Elias’ gaze with his own, he spits saliva into his palm and reaches for his cock. “Alright, _fine.”_ He is _very_ aware that his answer is setting him up for something he is not sure he wants to invite in, but at the same time, he _knows_ this man does not understand the pure concept of loneliness the same way Peter himself does.

"Well don't sound _too_ enthused." Elias sighs into the contact and reclines further into his seat. This is starting to feel _indulgent,_ especially given the cigarette and all.

He takes some time to think about what he's going to do with Peter. There's been plenty of time for Elias to come up with ideas, but given where they currently stand, he doesn't know which ones would be best to incorporate. A warning would be courteous, though.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I doubt you have much experience being on the receiving end." Elias reaches down to brush a lock of hair away from Peter's cheek and tuck it behind his ear. His smile, however, is anything but affectionate. "I suggest you put your pride and ego to the side for now, because I'm about to treat you _very_ badly."

Peter does not comment on the ‘receiving end’ part at the beginning, but he huffs an arrogant laugh out at the thought that Elias could get bad enough to shake him. He _absolutely_ cannot—Peter has been on the receiving end of some very mean things in his life, sexually and otherwise. He has enough confidence in himself to give Elias a challenging look while he slowly jerks him off. “I expected no less, but I am sure I can handle it.”

Still, the touch to his hair sticks with him for a second, having followed Elias’ hand with his eyes before determinedly staring at his cock instead. Working up some saliva, Peter leans forward so he can take the head into his mouth if only to let the gesture slide away unacknowledged.

"Funny, I said something similar last time, didn't I, and look where that got me." An utter wreck and nearly dead, he means. Elias considers his ability to be flippant about the incident a positive sign. "The hubris just means you have further to fall."

The cigarette is almost at the end of its life, so Elias takes one final drag off it before flicking it away. "I _do_ find it amusing, Peter, that today I got to see a little hint about what your home life was like, thanks to your cousin inside." He spares a glance over his shoulder, back towards the party. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't see her. "'Bleak' is right, my God. I've had vague ideas about the whole Lukas approach to childrearing for ages, but I didn't expect it to be quite _that_ bad."

Elias isn't sure which is waking up his cock more: Peter's attentions or his own cool dispassion. "You know that's not normal, right? You're not even given a _choice,_ not really. Either you learn to tolerate the abuse, or you're forced to leave. Or you're killed, presumably." A wince momentarily twists his face into something ironically sympathetic. "No wonder your family breeds so much. What a horrible failure rate."

It is hardly the first time someone had brought up his upbringing, though it may be the first time with a cock in his mouth. Still jerking off what’s not in his mouth, Peter pushes Elias’ foreskin back with his tongue and hums in agreement. It’s all things he’s heard before, though it had never been _that_ bad. He was accepted by his family and not cast out; he was the perfect example of a child who aligned with their God. Though, whether or not a family member was killed is none of his business, he never made the choice and he never knew of a relative that had been sacrificed all the same. 

When he pulls off to breathe, he says, “My experience growing up and her experience growing up are two separate childhoods altogether. She didn’t want to be part of the family, and I did.” At all costs, because not being accepted had been an infinitely worse thought at the time. Peter doesn’t let the memories deter him though, getting in close again and licking from base to tip and then taking Elias back into his mouth, a little deeper this time as he sucks.

Without warning, Elias grabs him by the ear and digs a manicured nail right into a particularly tender spot. "I'm sorry, did you think this was a _dialogue?_ If you _must_ speak, dear, then tell me something I _don't_ know." With a final sharp press, Elias lets go. His hand goes around to cradle the back of Peter's head—not pulling him down, but simply ready to tense up and keep him from withdrawing completely. Doesn't want to hear him talking for at least a little while. 

Peter looks far too composed than what he normally likes from getting a blowjob, although it is, admittedly, nice. Clearly Peter has some experience, and not for the first time, Elias wonders why he's waited until _now_ to do it. Perhaps it's a vulnerability thing. Elias rolls his hips a bit and presses against the back of his head to encourage more depth into his motion. Just encouragement, for now. They do have all evening.

"Someone like _you,_ though. A _believer._ You beat the odds, and the indoctrination actually worked on you. You're a _favoured son._ You get little _privileges_ to make your captivity easier—isn't that nice? But I think you know that you could never survive on the outside." Elias spares some comforting hair-scratches for poor, pitiable Peter. "You never even got the chance to figure out how to live in the real world. You'd be a _disaster_ if you didn't have your patron. Or dead."

Elias tilts Peter's head up with knuckles under his chin, wanting him to see his _amusement._ "You understand solitude, but what do you think is going to happen when Forsaken finally figures out that you have no idea what connection even _is?_ Will she stop letting you hide under her skirts, then?"

The brief flash of pain makes Peter squirm, but he doesn’t try and move away from it since he is quite sure that all that would serve to do is make Elias do it again. The spot throbs gently while Elias instead holds the back of his head, and Peter takes the hint to bob his head, taking him deeper into his mouth. But what an _infuriating_ stream of consciousness to be subjected to. He could _never_ understand something so private as his devotion to his God, but the insinuation that he wouldn’t be able to survive without his family or his patron? Of _course_ he could. 

Peter is _annoyed_ at the faux-affectionate meddling with his hair, but even more so when Elias forces him to look at him for what _does_ feel like the ground beneath him swaying. Breathing hard through his nose, he refuses to let any sort of doubt creep in. Of course he knows what connection is—the whole _point_ is not to have any. His patron knows of his devotion, even if in the back of his mind he remembers the absence he had felt after... _that._

"It's awfully convenient for you to have the kind of patron that gives you all the coping mechanisms you need. It must be nice to retreat somewhere where panic and pain cannot reach you." Being in the Lonely was like the most sullen of opium trips, if Elias had to describe it for accuracy instead of the poetic way he'd done in his written statement.

Elias is impressed with his own ability to keep composure so far. He wants to _wreck_ Peter, still looking so frustratingly put together. Wants to take what he needs from his mouth and bring home a vision of debauchery as a souvenir. But before that, Elias wants to undo him with his words.

"Because I see how _terrified_ of people you are. It's laughably obvious, really, to anyone looking." Peter's near-panic attack, the last time he'd left him blessedly alone. How he'd nearly fled this party, and how he'd stayed on its periphery until non-involvement was no longer an option.

"You just don't _understand_ them. People are unpredictable and messy, and you tell yourself that you want nothing to do with them. Have you considered the inverse, though? That people want nothing to do with _you?_ Does that knowledge comfort you? Make you more sure in your decision?" Elias wraps a hand around the base of his cock, working it firm and slow. For the first time tonight, he audibly and softly moans. There's still room for Peter to suck, if he likes. As he's expected to.

"But I'm getting rhetorical. I see the way you light right up when you're called _filthy_ or _disgusting."_ Elias punctuates his words with an image of Peter, nude in his hotel bed, jerking himself off with Elias' underwear in his face. He'd have loved to have Elias calling him those things in person instead of merely fantasizing about it. "It feels _right."_

Peter had... never considered that, that people didn’t want to be around him. But it is all the same in the end—if nobody wanted to be close to him, Peter has no tears to shed for it, because that _is_ his nature. The idea that he is _terrified_ of people is laughable, for he keeps them on the periphery to remind himself how much better it is to be by himself. Without the world just barely in reach, his devotion would be pointless.

He has to pretend though, for his own sake, that this isn’t getting to him. While it’s been a while since he last had dick in his mouth, this is one that he’s had a _lot_ of time to think about how it would feel and taste. The weight is comfortable, the taste is just past fresh which _is_ something he gets off on. But he can’t stop himself from moaning deep in his chest with his own actions thrown back in his face like that. Quite literally, seeing himself from a different perspective as he’d huffed dirty laundry and fantasized. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he lets his mouth slide down further, letting his eyelids droop in an attempt to keep himself from looking up at Elias.

Elias feels the moan rumble through him, and that gets him grinning. About damned time Peter started actually responding. "Ah... I figured you'd like that." He stops jerking himself off, taps the back of Peter's head. "Go on, make yourself useful."

While he does, Elias casts his eyes around the garden to seem purposefully disinterested. Looks back at the party, oblivious to what's going on out here. It's unlikely that they're going to be caught or seen, but Elias doesn't much care if they are when it wouldn't be the first time.

Elias huffs out the ghost of a laughing breath. "For a man who doesn't like people, you sure do _thrive_ off of negative attention."

If Peter had use of his mouth right now he would tell Elias to fuck off, plain and simple. _He_ is the one that dragged this out so far as to have him doing this right here and now when they could have handled it months ago. They could have sneaked away somewhere semi-public at that damned Fairchild wedding and Peter would have never had to get on his knees like this. Being talked down to, told to make himself _useful,_ and now Elias looks _bored._

It is infuriating. That he’d pushed a button of Peter’s and made him hot under the collar is even _worse_ —meant to demean him, even, but Peter won’t let him. He uses his hand to cradle Elias’ balls, relaxing his throat to take more of him in. If he’s going to spend this time trying to unsettle him, Peter will instead spend it trying to get him off as quickly as possible so this can end.

"Mmm, that's _nice._ You're much more agreeable like this." If Peter wants to move things along, then Elias can most certainly oblige. Peter's unshorn hair is easy to wind a hand into and set a pace by. Elias shuffles forward, perching on the edge of his seat with legs splayed wide. He wants to be able to see _everything,_ especially when he drags Peter down deep to use his throat.

"Honestly, you're terrible otherwise. You do just the bare minimum to come across as polite, and even when you do, you're not particularly good at it." Elias lets him have it with the breathy bitterness, fucking his throat all the while. "A word of advice, since you seem to sorely need it: kicking people out of your room with your come still warm inside them is... _marginally_ fine for one night stands. _Not_ for people you're expected to deal with professionally." 

Pulling him off, Elias leaves Peter's mouth unoccupied for only a second before he fills it with his fingers. "How does it feel to be _used_ like that, Peter? You can answer."

Not expecting Elias to grip him like that, Peter tries desperately not to outright gag, managing to relax his jaw so his throat doesn’t get abused so hard. He can’t help the desperate little noises that escape his throat, because behind the anger he feels, it’s _good._ It makes his blood boil even as his cock stirs with interest at this. 

If only Elias would _shut up._

When he’s let go, whatever he was going to say dies when the fingers enter his mouth. He roughly takes hold of Elias’ wrist then and rips his hand away, coughing for a beat before he lets his frustration show. His voice is raised, though not _too_ loudly as he says, “ _You_ are the one that keeps coming back to _me._ We could have had a one night stand, realized that we had a business relationship, and drawn the awkward line after the first time. I’ll take the blame for approaching you first, but the rest is on _you._ I don’t know what you _want_ from me, Elias, because I certainly don’t want _anything_ from you.”

Elias lets him talk. Wants very badly to smack him for not submitting gracefully, but he lets him say his piece and listens.

Elias has intuited already that Peter has been lying to himself. His lack of reaction to much of what he'd heard is evidence of that. Desire to know just how deep Peter's denial goes wins out over professional courtesy and Elias lets him go, sighs, and closes his eyes.

He Asks his patron what he is to Peter Lukas, and the Ceaseless Watcher enlightens him.

He is a torment, primarily, but that is no surprise. An infuriating curiosity, too. A danger, both for the authority he commands and the distraction he inspires. An inconveniently common resident in Peter's head.

Elias' eyes blink open— _all_ of them, even those external to his body that vanish in direct view. He does not gloat; he recites. Although he does call Peter a liar first.

"You want to fuck me over the sink in some filthy nightclub bathroom. You want me to write about you again. You want to drink gin without being reminded of me. You want me out of your thoughts while you're at home—you want to feel _safe_ at home, and guess what, Peter, _so do I._ I put my safety in your hands and you _disregarded it._ You deserve every ounce of paranoia your mind has been inflicting on you. It has all been _you_ —I have not been watching. I have better things to do."

The moment Elias goes quiet, Peter isn’t sure _what_ he feels, but it quickly turns to uneasiness, dread, _horror._ It feels like the proverbial rug has been swept out from beneath him continually at each articulated offence that Elias has _no_ right knowing about. Pulled from his head without asking him.

It doesn’t matter that Elias is right about every single thing, that all of these things have been on a continuous loop in his head. Peter feels _violated,_ but to be thought so little of and told that he’s not worth watching? He feels equal parts enticed by that, which is _maddening._

Sitting back on his legs and leaning away from Elias, his hands fall to his lap, feeling in some sense conquered. No use hiding it—Elias has unearthed his deepest, most troubling thoughts about him. When he asks his intended question, it’s a quiet, “What do you _really_ want from me?”

The eyes, they stay. They take in all of Peter's defilement and turmoil. Elias drinks it in too, and the novelty makes it better than having his cock sucked. It does wonders for soothing his temper.

"For you to be _honest_ with yourself for once in your life," Elias levelly tells him. He grounds his hands on his thighs, petting over them on an exhale. All this Sight can be a bit _much._ "Your company. And revenge, to be blunt."

There is a tingle in Peter’s spine that flourishes under the attention and he _hates_ it. Being seen, truly _seen_ entirely—seen right through to what he didn’t want to admit to himself. _God_ does he want, and he yearns to be _had._ The worst part is that here and now he wants to give in to his desires. He wants Elias to use him however he wants, and he wants him to have his revenge, too. 

Peter owes him that; all actions have consequences.

“If I am honest with myself, then what?” He wants to know how this evening will end. Finally raising his eyes to Elias’, he is met with many, and he does not flinch. The same piercing gaze of the Eye is behind them, vivacious in how they bore through him. Intoxicating and sobering in the same breath.

Knowing full well the power of Beholding and being able to conjure up a brave face in front of something so monstrous is... admirable, honestly. Elias has watched the minds of lesser men break when faced with it, and more still have fled or fought. It's the arousal, Jonah thinks. That's certainly helped _him_ a lot in comprehending the incomprehensible.

"Do you want to finish me off, or come home with me?" Though a vessel for boundless information (—he has drunk two Sazeracs tonight, he is here at Conrad Lukas' insistence, his suit is six years old—) and sounding oracular for it, his base interests are both present and very evident. Notably, there is neither judgement nor hope in his words. "Or one and then the other?"

Peter does not answer immediately to what is on the table because he knows that the second he says that he wants both will be admitting that he _has_ become attached. It will be admitting a lot of things that Peter does not want to confront right now, and yet he still scoots forward under Elias’ _awful_ gaze. Withering slightly, Peter looks away from all of his eyes and puts one hand on Elias’ thigh to push his legs apart again to make space for himself. He grabs Elias’ cock at the base to steady it so he can get his mouth back on him.

Peter is spared from having to answer out loud—Elias already Knows. With that idea confirmed, Elias mentally thanks his patron for its assistance and sheds its presence in his mind like an old, familiar overcoat. He visibly relaxes and makes Peter's lips into his point of focus. Regards him with two antiquated eyes only.

"Good man," he sighs, and means it for the compliment it is.

He hates this with every fiber of his being, every thought and instinct he has is saying that he is making a mistake. In the heat and humidity of the evening kept barely at bay by his own miserable and lonely inclinations, being honest with himself about how badly he wants this feels much better than the agony of suppressing his desires. And right now, his main desire is to place a messy kiss on the underside of the shaft, down until he sucks one of Elias’ balls into his mouth while starting to jerk him off. 

The danger of the party going on had not affected him much before for all of the nervousness, knowing he had his backup plan of being able to flee into the Lonely, but now he feels the thrill of someone potentially catching them; of _seeing_ them. Peter moans and switches his mouth to the other side, giving the same attention with his tongue, careful of his teeth.

In spite of himself, Elias is transfixed by watching Peter work. He is coming down from being filled with a deluge of knowledge and his desire has always been highly visual—those are sufficient explanations for why his heart is pounding in his chest. He's _won_ something, and Peter is accepting that state of affairs so beautifully. This is matching up to the kind of thing he'd fantasized about, months ago, when he'd considered how he'd claim his prize.

The whole scene leading up to now has been so _tense_ that Elias doesn't want to risk directing them back there by mocking Peter or trying to rile him up. Elias doesn't feel he has to put on airs of disinterest now and he isn't shy about his expressiveness or quiet, pleased vocalizations. He tells Peter that he's doing splendidly and finger-combs through his ruffled hair.

Peter will give him one night of being honest with himself, but not without _hating_ himself for it. A contented sound escapes him as Elias’ fingers sift through his hair along with the encouragement. It gives him whiplash, certainly, for Elias to say he would be _mean_ —and he had—to being treated much more nicely. If he goes through with going home with him, part of him knows that he will not leave unscathed. 

Regardless, he finally takes Elias back into his mouth, moaning around him as he relaxes his throat again. He’s careful about the scrape of his teeth, holding onto the thighs in front of him for leverage.

Elias has been so very patient, and he doesn't fault himself for wanting to take advantage of Peter's eager compliance. What he _really_ wants to do is fuck his mouth properly, as the shifting of his hips makes obvious—but that would require standing, and there is still a party going on a wall away. It wouldn't do to invite potential interruption, and nor does Elias want to relocate to somewhere more secluded this far along. He settles for cradling Peter's head and controlling his movement, coaxing him to slide down luxuriously _deep,_ since he already demonstrated he could handle it. By the time Elias is done enjoying that, there is a small pool of Peter's spit dripped onto the ground between them. Which is honestly impressive, given the beard.

"Off," Elias tells him, and wraps a hand around his dick to keep Peter from sinking back down onto it—he's terribly close and concerned that much more of that would do him in. "Sit back. Get your cock out."

For all of Peter’s insistence on being petulant and thoughtless with Elias this evening, now that he’s letting himself enjoy this, he _really_ gets into sucking him off. The taste of him gets him hot under the collar, _literally,_ starting to sweat through his shirt. And it's _embarrassing_ how much he is salivating; it drips down his chin, to his neck, and down to the ground, he sees, when Elias tells him to get off and stop. 

It's equal parts confusing and disappointing, wondering what he's playing at until Peter is told what to do, a direction that he has no problem taking, pulling his cock out and sitting back. Catching his breath while waiting, skin flushed, the buttons of his dress shirt straining for how his chest puffs out when he squares his shoulders under scrutiny.

Elias straightens up, taking it all in. The sole of a tan Oxford clacks against one of Peter's straining buttons, pressing on his sternum. Instruction to lean back further and present himself for inspection. All the while, Elias pleasures himself with a light touch, keeping on the edge of _delightful_ and _not enough._

"You're a _vision,"_ Elias informs him, almost reverent. The sight Peter makes, wet-faced and panting, eclipses his fantastic expectations. His gaze travels lower, to the angrily heavy cock hanging between his legs. Gorgeous. Enough to start _him_ salivating, and certainly enough to get him clenching down.

He does something terrible next in leaning back to counterbalance his foot's descent down Peter's body. Nudges at his balls and rakes him with the laces. Pins Peter's cock to his stomach under the sole of his shoe, teasing him with sweetest pressure.

"Do you want to make me come, Peter?" Elias points his toe, focusing the contact to just under his cockhead. Polished leather slides over flushed skin as he rubs. "Drink me down? Or have me spend across your face, perhaps? You're starving for it, but you're also acting such a _slut_ that I can't tell which you want more."

Being nudged by Elias’ shoe, being _stepped on,_ does something to Peter that he is not fully equipped to handle. It’s not a situation he’s been in before, but he can’t stop the quiet moan nor the rock of his hips into the contact while his cock leaks onto Elias’ shoe. He had to lean back with his hands on his ankles for leverage, but now his arms feel weak, locked elbows wavering under the attention.

Peter wants to rut against his shoe, he wants to taste him again, sure, but the thought of being marked by come makes a shiver go down his spine. He can’t find his voice though, lidded eyes blinking slow as the shame burns through him like a house fire, warming his bones. But he wants to _see_ Elias as he comes, he wants to feel it on his skin just as much as he wants it down his throat. When he still can’t find his voice, Peter feels like he might crumble from _need_ as he sticks his tongue out wordlessly, eyes trained on Elias’.

Oh, Peter _really_ likes that. Elias figured a depraved man like him would. He rather feels like keeping Peter there forever, or at the very least, making him beg for relief. But he has been cruel enough to Peter here and would love to continue to be cruel to him at home, so he plants his foot on the ground and pulls Peter back between his legs by his hair.

"This is _your_ job," Elias says, and stops masturbating. He's desperate and the frustration shows up in his tone. "And don't you dare touch yourself. You focus on _me."_

Forgetting the cushion under his legs, Peter moves forward a beat on his knees so he can get closer, fully immersed in wanting to take Elias back into his mouth with such an adamant direction being given. His jaw aches from the previous abuse, but he takes the head of Elias’ cock back into his mouth and takes it in deep until he’s almost gagging, moving one of his hands up to cradle his balls with it. Pulling up, he pays attention to the head instead and uses his other hand to jerk him off. Focusing only on Elias even as his own cock stands neglected in the open air. 

He’s rewarded very suddenly when Elias comes with a sound that goes straight through Peter, making him groan low in his throat. Catching the first part in his throat and on his tongue, Peter looks up at Elias as he pulls back and jerks him off onto his face. It’s hard to pay attention though when he feels the first spurt on his cheek, streaking thick across his lips and his nose, over his eyebrow and dripping down onto his eyelashes which forces him to close his eye. But he still looks at Elias in a daze, breathing heavily against the head of his cock before taking it back into his mouth in an attempt to get anything left. He doesn’t even notice his own dick leaking uselessly onto the ground, so hard now it _hurts_ with no guarantee of relief. That was not part of the bet—he _knows_ this, and he will follow the rules.

Even as bliss courses through him and his breathing stutters, Elias watches, unblinking, as he makes a _terrible_ mess of Peter. Dazed and horny is an _excellent_ look on him, he must admit. Elias basks in the feel of every last drop being sucked out of him. And when Peter finishes with that, Elias trails a couple of fingers through the come on his eyelid and feeds him more. "Mm, _lovely."_

Elias fumbles for his very fancy pocket square and snaps it out of its neat fold. Gives it to Peter to take, since he can't be expected to do everything himself.

His tongue pushes through the fingers offered to him, caught up in a haze of desire that runs strongly through him. But once he has something to wipe his face off with, Peter comes back to himself a little bit, realizing now that he’s _aching_ to be touched in any way Elias would. There is the undercurrent of caution as he finishes cleaning himself best as he can, unknowingly missing a smidge caught in his beard. Even hot and bothered, he is _embarrassed_ at himself, and yet the honesty for his desires feels rather good instead of stifling them down to the depths of himself until they cease to be.

Then again, Peter has _never_ desired someone as much as he does the man in front of him. An awful fate, he is certain of, but right now he can’t bring himself to care. His shoulders do slump though, unsure if he should tuck himself back in or wait for Elias to tell him what to do. After all, the bet spoils have now been cashed in, and Peter’s needs are separate.

Elias takes the pocket square back, deliberately letting Peter stew in his discomfort for the length of time it takes to clean himself up and set his clothing right. He has been so very well-behaved over the past while—Elias hoped he'd take to submission one way or another. It'd be nice if he didn't need the framework of a bet to put him there next time.

Afterglow has softened the tension in him along with his demeanour. Elias leans down, tilts Peter's chin up, and kisses him right on his well-fucked, pitiable mouth. "Come home with me. I can ruin you much better in my bed than I can out here."

Last time, Peter had felt the urge to kiss Elias in passing before everything went south, and he hadn’t done it then. That moment had hung on his mind, and it had made him wonder if he would have done anything different when he had been gone at sea for months. Now, when Elias kisses him, Peter feels like a man dying of thirst from how badly he wants another one, _barely_ stopping himself from following when he pulls away from him. 

Hearing that Elias wants to _ruin_ him does something else to him entirely, certainly makes it difficult to put his cock away before he stands up on shaky knees that crack from being bent for so long. Peter uses his shirtsleeve to scrub at his neck, trying to get the remnants of drool dried up and get the gross feeling to dissipate. His voice is hoarse as he says, “Lead the way,” hand gesturing out toward the empty alley they had come from.

Unfortunately for the outfit, spit shows up prominently on the light grey of his trousers, since they had gotten a bit sloppy with it. But that's not much of a problem when Elias can fold his suit jacket over his arm and keep it in front of himself as they walk. Puts it back on while standing outside of a black Bentley Continental, fishes out his keys, and unlocks the doors for the both of them. He's had the car for about as long as he's had the body—which is to say it's still quite new. Given the humidity of the evening he rolls down the windows and tells Peter that he's welcome to smoke, since it looks like he could use it.  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what up it's jen, you can find me on tumblr @jennyloggins, and on twitter at both @somegarbageisok on main and @slimejen for tma/video game posting.
> 
> Leto can be found on tumblr @auto-didact (general) and @divorcecravat (TMA), or on twitter @quickenedsilver.
> 
> many thanks to the kind folks over on the Eye Horror Discord for their help and their enthusiasm.
> 
> **Content warnings:**  
>  Emotional abuse, facials, humiliation & degradation, and transphobia (misgendering/deadnaming). [return to top]


	9. Skeleton Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is honest with himself about what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click to view content warnings.

The traffic is, mercifully, not that bad on a Sunday evening. Elias nominally lives in Chelsea, close to where it borders with Belgravia, in the tallest building in the immediate vicinity. A penthouse apartment, naturally. He does enjoy his views.

They scarcely have their shoes off before Elias is grabbing Peter by the lapels and backing him up into the closest stretch of unadorned wall. Doesn't slam him there, but the violence in _this_ kiss compensates for that.

Peter expects no less of Elias’ car, absurdly expensive and quite new. It fits, what with the several lifetimes of Institute funding he has been able to acquire from his family, amongst his other benefactors and people seeking information from him for pay. He takes him up on the permission to smoke, going through two cigarettes by the time they arrive at Elias’ building. It does nothing to calm his nerves, quite the opposite really.

Walking calmly with him through the lobby and to the elevators, it is a tense ride up. He almost thinks that Elias will pull something then and there, but instead the doors open and they walk out with Peter trailing slightly behind. He feels as if he is in a daze still, not knowing what to expect and knocked off balance into resignation. The slow-burning acid in his veins comes back with a vengeance when he’s kissed like he is being requisitioned. His lips aren’t so much nipped as they are bitten, forcing his mouth open into it. One of Peter’s hands comes up to Elias’ wrist, but not to tug him off; he uses the contact to ground himself while his brain is in a fog that he doesn’t want to drift away in for once.

Whatever Elias expected of Peter Lukas, near-total compliance isn't it. Obedience made sense during the trip here, as did the lack of conversation when so much of it this evening has been unbelievably heavy. But there's no reason for that to continue into a private space. It takes time for Elias to notice that his attempts to get Peter to respond are not working as intended, but once he does, he lets go of Peter's suit (with his one free hand, at least) and stops taking up so much of his personal space.

"Peter, I do want you to have a good time." Elias starts to go and stroke his shoulder or his cheek, but he arrests the movement. Peter Lukas is not most people and may not find that comforting. "If you'd like a drink and a minute to catch your breath, we can do that. Whatever you need."

Which is _the_ most confusing part. First he wants to rile Peter up, he wants to be ‘mean’ and tear him down a peg or two and it hits a deep part of himself that he doesn’t want to acknowledge... but whatever Orsinov carousel torture device of emotion has replaced his rational thinking lately can’t make heads or tails of it. But now that Elias has backed off, he can breathe a _little_ bit easier. At the very least he now recognizes that going straight into sex without getting himself back together first is maybe not the best idea. Letting out a heavy breath, he says, “I could use a drink.” His throat is dry and he’s a touch dehydrated from earlier anyway.

Elias asks him what he'd like on the way into the living room, which is also where the bar is. First order of business is getting them both sizable glasses of cold water, which he sets down on the bar to be retrieved. Personally, Elias is going with brandy.

The living room opens onto the guest bath with the door left open and a nightlight on, in case Peter feels like catching a moment of privacy. The room itself leans towards cluttered with the number of bookshelves and glass-fronted cabinets holding an assortment of curios. Apparently, this is where a lot of the furniture from James Wright's old office has gone. Out of place in the room is a cat tree with no current occupant—the little devil herself has made a sort of pillow fort out of the couch's throw cushions, warily poking her nose out to investigate the commotion.

Peter distractedly answers back with rum, he's not feeling particularly picky about it right now even if rum always puts him back out on the ocean sharing a bottle of rum and playing rounds of cards with his first mate, or Salesa, or whoever he was tipsy enough to make a bet with. It's a small comfort, even unrecognized as it will be. Peter opts for the bathroom first, taking the chance to relieve himself and also splash water on his face. It at least feels good to get out of the humidity of the night, towelling away the sweat off his brow and residue off his face from whatever he may have missed (and the clammy post-drool skin). 

He takes a breather, looking at himself in the mirror at his mussed hair and bags under his eyes. He feels _tired,_ not physically but internally. The whole being honest with himself situation had been great, but it also felt like cracking open a trapdoor and whatever was chained up behind it is roaring in agony. Not in _quite_ the same dramatic sense, but everything after New Horizon felt different. The suggestion of such gluttony had been interesting, and then the act itself had felt like a gift to him since he would have never thought the plan up himself. 

Peter knows now that he had betrayed Elias' trust and treated him exceptionally poorly, spent months agonizing over it, and still has not apologized—something that he could easily do to try and ease some of this awful guilt. He will not be forgiven with an apology, so he supposes that is what he's here for. To get his punishment out of the way so they can move on.

When he's finished with his self-reflection, Peter leaves the bathroom at least having an idea of what they will be doing. The only problem is: starting with that? Absolutely not. So instead he walks around the room looking at the curio cabinets lining the walls. There are a lot of positively _macabre_ items hiding on the shelves, and he says conversationally, "Quite a theme you have going on here."

Elias understands what Peter wants out of the drink perhaps better than the man does himself—which is very fair, considering his own choice of brandy reminds him of older, better times. He fixes him a generous pour of dark rum—no ice, simple as possible—and leaves the bottle out in case he wants another later.

While Peter's in the bathroom Elias also takes the chance to freshen up in his bedroom's ensuite. Temporarily alone, he thinks on how much more comfortable he is here than in any of Peter's hotel rooms (which he was _not_ going to be kicked out of for the third time in a row, thank you very much). It has been ages since he's entertained at home—not since James Wright—and he is aware of his impulse to do a _good job._ It's difficult for him not to come across as doting when he sometimes Knows what his guests' needs are, and even without supernatural tips being whispered in his ear, he has a pretty good intuitive sense about that sort of thing. Elias makes a mental note to try not to stifle Peter with attention this evening.

Elias sheds his jacket, tie, and belt and leaves them in the wardrobe to be properly dealt with later. Comes back to see Peter inspecting his things, which amuses him a little. That's kind of what they're there for. "Not everything odd the Institute comes across belongs in Artefact Storage. Though I'd be careful about touching things." Curious housekeepers are why most of them are behind glass, but the main reason for that is cat-proofing. His valuable furniture is in different rooms behind closed doors by that same logic.

He takes the couple of trips from bar to coffee table, making sure all the glasses find their way onto coasters. "Best of luck finding the eyes," he teases. They aren't actually in this room, but a number of other items are organic in nature. Most notably, there is an unmistakably human skull sitting atop an elaborate wooden box measuring about one foot square.

Elias sinks into the couch with a sigh and notes how the pillows move beyond him disturbing them. Cranes his neck to look into Piper's hiding space. "Oh, hello. How has your evening been?"

Peter looks at the skull and knows without a doubt that it is real, but he isn’t about to ask the story behind it. Every single item seems to have a purpose and he’s sure the skull is no different. But once he finishes his circuit, he hears the quiet ‘mrp’ of the cat that briefly sticks its face out of hiding to assess the situation. 

“Didn’t take you for a cat person,” Peter says as he sits down at the opposite end of the couch and grabs the rum first, taking a generous drink of it. “I picture you with something like a snake orrrrr,” gesturing emptily, “something else _weird_ and exotic.”

Peter feels better for the breather, more when he switches the liquor for water. He has no idea what the rules are right now, and he certainly never expected to be here of all places tonight. Nor does he expect the cat slinking out from its hiding spot and walking across Elias’ lap and onto the space between them, stepping closer and bumping its head into his thigh. “O-oh, why is it doing that.”

"I've considered getting a snake before," Elias admits. "Never got around to it." Snakes, at least, are quiet. Wouldn't make a mess of the house in his absence. Adjusting to living with a cat had been a mutually difficult ordeal, but Elias thinks it's worked out. Well enough for him to run a hand along Piper's spine as she makes her way across his lap without protest, anyway.

He smiles for the first time in a while as he watches Peter have no clue what to do. "She's just investigating. Let her, would you?" Elias leaves him alone with the cat for a minute because he thinks it's funny, going into the kitchen to fetch the bag of cat treats. Sits back down and steals her interest away from inspecting the stranger by feeding her a treat and rewarding her calmness with scratches. "Her name's Piper. Want to feed her one?"

Peter is relieved when the cat's attention is stolen by the crinkle of the bag, because she had looked about to pounce onto him by how she'd been standing with her paws on his thigh. He watches Elias feed her a little bit of whatever is in that bag, and she makes a content little noise that makes him want to pet her too. So when Elias asks if he wants to feed her, he sticks his hand into the bag held out to him. "Sure—ah, hello Piper, is it?" 

She slinks away from Elias and back to Peter, making another one of her little cat noises as she bumps her head into his hand. "You want this then, yeah? Here you go," he says as she takes it from him before actually hopping into his lap this time. "Do I pass your test then?" He's amused now, even if he'd rather the thing not stand on him. Patting her on the head makes her meow again at him; it's cute, he'd even dare to say.

Not knowing what to say feels less uncomfortable this time, so instead, he says the first thing that comes to mind. "I don't think I've ever been in a room this long with a cat before. One of my sisters had a dog once, for about a day before my uncle found out about it. She brought it home when she'd found it lost in the woods on the family grounds, and was intending on keeping it. Don't remember what she named it, but she was so happy to give it attention. Naturally, the dog was gone the moment it was found, and then she was gone a month later." Not a good story; she had been heartbroken, which he supposes was the point with the family. A lesson in not keeping things around that bring joy, because once it was gone there would only be sorrow. The lack of her presence faded eventually; Peter wonders briefly if Judith has a dog now before turning his attention back on Piper who has started trying to get to his face, standing now with her front paws on his shirt. "Well aren't you rumbling like a little engine, Piper."

Elias listens to the story as he sips at his brandy. It's very difficult for him to sympathize when his day job has him reading tragic stories on a weekly basis at least—he wouldn't have survived for as long as he has if he felt for every tale that crossed his desk. But he does listen and nods in acknowledgement when appropriate. He doubts that Peter registers just how abnormal that experience was, even after being berated about his upbringing earlier in the evening.

Instead of speaking to it, Elias keeps an eye out to make sure that Piper is behaving and not attempting to shred Peter's clothing. "I'm shocked how quickly she's taken to you. It took her _weeks_ to warm up to me." That's probably an Eye thing, Elias is aware. Partially a 'complete change in owner's behaviour' and 'sudden move to a new home' thing too, but animals can be sensitive to the Fears' effects, as a great many statements can attest. Interesting that she doesn't seem to have the same problem with the Lonely.

He hadn't wanted sympathy, and he's glad Elias affords him none. It makes this seem more normal, less hazed in emotion. They are simply two terrible men sitting in a room together with a cat. "I don't know how cats act, so I'll take your word for it," Peter starts, but then the claws come out and poke him _just_ so as she starts kneading into his chest, making him suck in a surprised breath. "Okay, that's enough then Piper," he says with a chuckle as he lifts her paws up and tries to get her to scoot off of him.

Once she is pried off, Peter trades glasses again to the liquor and takes another drink. He's not sure if all of this means they have shifted back to being somewhat amicable with each other, but Peter knows he still has to move this along. The ball is in his court, so to speak. Sighing, he gestures between them and says, "I don't do _this_." A pause for whatever 'this' is with a short flourish of his hand. 

It is not with warm, heartfelt intentions when he continues, "People are messy, and I do not particularly enjoy them. I am _sure_ this news does not come as a surprise. I am not looking for anything deeper from you besides a decent business relationship, but I have to admit that before how things turned last time, I had ...fun. It did go further than it should have, though.

"As you said, my paranoia has all been in my own head—it's unfamiliar, and even when I run from it, it has chased me around. You apologized for your rash actions, so I am apologizing for mine. I almost killed you, so, I apologize."

Peter is in a much better space now than he has been in _months,_ it feels like. He doesn't particularly care if Elias accepts the apology or not—rather, he knows it's not enough but doesn't intend on grovelling for forgiveness or anything like that. It isn't a completely hollow apology to smooth things over, but despite his floundering in a fog, he _does_ very much want to see what Elias means by saying he wants to ruin him. And Peter wants to stop dwelling.

Elias understands that he needs to interpret the words and not the tone in which they're said. Decades of dealing with the Lukas family have taught him to be forgiving towards the way they do not always follow the subtleties of normal social interaction. Taking that into account, Peter reads as being fairly honest. That's certainly progress.

"Mm. Suppose I _did_ go poking around inside your head earlier." Elias is not about to apologize for that one. In his opinion, Peter absolutely deserved a reminder of who he is and what he is capable of doing. "I feel as though that makes us even, in a way. Just don't let it happen again." The implicit threat doesn't have much of a bite to it. Peter understands that there would be consequences already.

Elias takes a long pause to work on his brandy and watch Piper stalk off towards the kitchen. He goes back and forth in his head about continuing to address where they stand with each other. In the end, he speaks up, assuming that Peter probably needs things spelled out to him plainly to keep from getting any inaccurate ideas.

"I'm certainly not looking for anything romantic, if that's your concern. That's not the sort of thing I do, although you already know that, don't you." Hard to conceal his stance on relationships from the Lonely itself. "A good working relationship, though, yes. And continued sexual involvement, as long as we're both interested."

Having it said plainly does help, and he's glad there's no beating around the bush about it. "I am interested, yes." Just sex—no room for romance between either of them. It works out _perfectly_ since Peter doesn't want to be saddled with such awful _emotions_ ever again over something avoidable by not letting passion get to them. "I am _very_ interested, actually; you were right earlier about treating me badly—I never got to finish." He says with a slight pout, finishing off his rum and leaning back more against the couch.

Elias finds it charming that a one-sided sexual encounter apparently counts as 'being treated badly.' Poor thing has no idea.

"And you won't—not for a while yet," Elias cheerily replies. "Although you'll sorely wish for otherwise." He'd follow that up with doing something _terrible,_ usually, but he's aware that some people get a bit weird about pets possibly being spectators. Instead, he settles for patting him on the thigh before bracing against it to stand up. "Bedroom, I think. Bring your water."

Elias leaves his empty glass at the bar and pauses for a moment to drain the other one and leave it behind as well. Leads the way down the hall, assuming he'll be followed.

This is more his speed, though the threat of being 'ruined' comes back to him. Taking away the anxiety, having desire leftover makes this much more tolerable. Watching Elias walk, he gets up to follow, grabbing his glass of water as instructed. Following him to the bedroom, Peter takes in the decor, waiting for further instruction since Elias is still quite in charge of this evening.

Elias' bedroom does not share the same aesthetic as the living room—it is light and airy where the other space was dark; a room for mornings instead of evenings. It is, perhaps unexpectedly, devoid of any unnerving trappings on display. On the wall closest to the foot of the bed, there is a thin rail protruding from it on which a neutral grey curtain hangs, stopping a couple of feet shy of the floor. Covering up a mirror, perhaps? (Or a painting. Again, some guests could get a bit weird about spectators.)

The bed itself is a heavy, antique thing, flanked on either side by a pair of nightstands. Elias doesn't turn the overhead lights on, opting instead for the warm glow of a standing lamp next to the vanity.

"Here's what I would like to do—and let me know if this sounds agreeable to you." Elias steps up to his front; kisses the side of Peter's neck. His fingers work on undoing his buttons, one by one. "I have a sort of _thing_ for rendering my partners incapable of forming coherent thought. You were _very_ attractive before, but I can do much better." He coaxes Peter's belt undone, unthreads it from the belt loops, and sets it down upon the room's armchair. "You've made a mess of me twice now. I hardly think that's fair."

“Then make it fair,” Peter says on an exhale, eyelids drooping as Elias gets to work on his clothing. He puts his glass of water down on the closest flat surface he can before he helps with untucking his shirt and letting it slide over his shoulders. Now that his head is clearing up and they’ve spelled out what they’re both looking for, he’s ready for a good time. More importantly, to go back to his normal day to day of being unbothered by the extraneous things.

Things for later. Now, Peter hazards asking, “And how will you be making a ‘mess’ of me tonight?” Earlier had been... a fluke of a foggy head, Peter is sure of that, but he also is very much aware of how Elias can pick him apart with _ease_ if he wants.

Elias steps around to his back and takes the shirt for him, delicately draping it over the seat's arm for when he'll need to wear it later. "I have my preferences, but I'm open to suggestions." The undershirt goes next, pulled up over Peter's head and treated with similar care. Elias presses a kiss to his bare shoulder as soon as it's revealed.

"What do you love, Peter? When you fantasize, what do you think about?" As he undoes his own shirt, Elias hovers close enough for his cuffs to occasionally brush along Peter's spine. "What makes you _burn?_ Answer honestly—it'll keep me from having to wrench the answers out of you myself. And it isn't as though I haven't seen you act terribly depraved before."

Back to being 'honest' with himself, except there are some things he would rather not say, at least not right now even under the threat of having things ripped out of his head. There are things Peter doesn't want to admit to _himself,_ more than that. He knows eventually it will all come out, too, but Peter is not about to make it _easy._

The ghost of contact makes a chill go up his spine, but he doesn't move into the fleeting touch of clothing. "Since you asked _so_ nicely, can't see why not." Taking a breath, Peter continues, "I think about being in pain, and being tied up and denied..." His eyes slip closed while he thinks about just earlier, being used and then marked by come. Elias calling him disgusting, using his shoe to tease his cock. "I get off on being treated like I am less than dirt." That is as honest as he will comfortably get right now, even if it is more than possibly anyone else knows about him. Of the small handful of people he has slept with more than once, none of them would ever delve deeper than a quick fuck.

Elias' immediate thought is the potential for more elaborate scenes if their sexual relationship is going to continue. In his own idle nighttime thoughts, he'd considered some degrading scenarios he'd like to see Peter in—but a lot of them would require planning, and he doesn't want to spring anything too intense on him tonight. That would require some negotiation and, ideally, an encounter where they were both coming into it relaxed.

"Isn't that fun. Looks like I'm going to have to step on you more often." Elias licks his lips to kiss him on the back of the neck. A mocking little laugh tickles over the mark. "You're in luck. That matches up fairly well with what I had in mind." Elias strips his torso down to his skin. With his touch, he silently makes corrections to Peter's posture—shoulders back, chin up, looking straight ahead. Rewards his obedience by holding him by the hips and settling against him fully. Elias tries not to grind himself against Peter's ass. Two points of metal leave indentations in Peter's back.

"You've mentioned before that you have a preference against bottoming—would you be open to it tonight?" It's slightly unfair to be asking him that with their current positioning, but he will respect a 'no.'

There is something almost soothing about being directed; pliant under hands that are much too familiar for Peter's liking and moved into standing straighter. The contact makes him feel weak at the knees, and the question leaves his throat particularly dry. It has certainly been a long time since he's taken it, so long that Peter can't remember the details. Certainly not since he was much younger. 

Thinking about it now though, after the roller coaster he's been on lately, a large, _loud_ part of him wants to say no to Elias. He almost does, but Peter is being _honest_ with himself tonight, and _honest_ Peter is curious about what Elias has up his sleeve. Leaning back slightly into what he assumes are new piercings poking at his back, a short hum rumbles deep in his chest before he says, "Convince me."

" _Convince_ you?" Another laugh, this time with a note of amusement. Elias' hands migrate around to Peter's front and start to undo his trousers blind. "How about this: I'll grant you the privilege of eating my arse again if you agree to let me finger you. And we'll see how long you remain 'unconvinced.'" Elias was absolutely going to have him do that anyway—he's been thinking about Peter's enthusiasm and his skill the last time they had done that, and it _does_ work very well from a humiliation angle—but if Elias can work that into a negotiation, then that's even better.

Last time Peter had eaten Elias out, he distinctly remembers quite a few things about the encounter. First that he could have kept going for _hours_ if he wanted to, and then that he'd told Elias he wouldn't be able to think of him without thinking about how he tastes. And _oh_ does that memory come back, making him salivate where he stands. That had been a fun, casual, nearly-anonymous romp, and his overconfidence is proving to be his downfall _now._ He remembers Elias asking what one man can do, the answer to which they had scratched the surface of last time. 

The last thing is that when Elias asked if he exclusively topped, Peter told him that it takes a big personality that doesn't take no for an answer to get him on his back—the problem now being that Peter doesn't _actually_ want to say no the longer he thinks about it. "Agreed, then. I don't suppose you'll let me go first?"

Elias pushes Peter's trousers down his hips and his underclothes along with them, baring him to the open air. "Yes, considering I'd like you coherent enough to do a decent job." The actual answer is more along the lines of 'absolutely,' since Elias really wants to start this off with something established as being mutually enjoyable.

"Now undress and take the duvet off the bed, would you? It can just go in the corner. I need to fetch some things." Elias doesn't even look at Peter on his way to the walk-in closet.

In there, out of Peter's direct view, he slides a mirrored panel aside to reveal his more... _unconventional_ items, since only so many things could fit into a nightstand. There's a small collection of implements suspended from hooks—much as he enjoys a bit of pain, he's not generally the one inflicting it, so he doesn't feel the need to keep a veritable armoury at home. An assortment of accessories hang there too—gags and restraints, that sort of thing.

He considers one of the collars. He _really_ considers the collars. But he thinks it best not to overwhelm Peter with too much novelty at once and, reluctantly, he leaves them be. Elias decides on a small bundle of rope, a pair of leather bondage cuffs, and a short and whippy rattan cane. He's not sure if Peter has any background with actual corporal punishment—could go either way, given his upbringing—but he knows how to make the sensations with this cane distinct enough to avoid causing distress. Does keep an eye on Peter's face when he brings it into the room though, trying to gauge what he thinks.

Honest Peter follows the instructions given to him, undressing and putting the rest of his clothing out of the way on the same chair his shirts are resting on rather than in a heap on the floor. Then he takes care of the duvet like Elias had asked him to, peeling one corner back from the bed and shoving it off to the corner. It gives him another chance to look around the room, different from his _exceedingly_ creepy office at the Institute, and different from the rest of the house. It seems almost uncharacteristic, definitely gentler than his other occupied spaces that Peter has seen. 

When Elias enters the room again, it’s with some fun looking things. The short cane _does_ remind him of a tutor he’d had that had tried to brandish a similar looking thing against him only for Peter to steal it and use it against her. She had dared hit his knuckles with it during writing instruction when he had mixed up his cursive letters, so he hit her in the face with it. 

...An oddly sour memory that he shoves away so the night doesn’t have a second chance to get nearly ruined, raising an eyebrow at the assortment of items Elias carries with him. Peter also gets a good look at the new piercings, but something tells him that he’s not going to be getting his mouth on them tonight. “All that for me?”

Elias hums in the affirmative. "I'd rather not have to worry about your circulation." After setting most of the things down, he sits on the edge of the bed and starts unbuckling and putting the cuffs on Peter one at a time. He appreciates the chance to appreciate Peter's wrists and forearms. His skin is so fair that many of his veins show up blue.

These are the most comfortable option he has for long-term wear. And it's been a while since he's had occasion to tie a partner up—in cases like that, he generally liked to take at least a glance at one of the instructional guides he keeps around the house before going into the evening. Elias had not anticipated putting Peter in restraints when he prepared for the party—he'd anticipated other things.

With that handled, Elias unselfconsciously undresses. Takes the glasses off, too, since he doesn't want anything impeding his field of vision. He does not take his eyes off of Peter or turn his back as he climbs into bed to lie and lounge. "Come here. You've been good about keeping your hands to yourself, so you can explore a little. But I would like at least one decent kiss out of you before your mouth becomes too disgusting for that." Elias' lips quirk at the corner, amused.

That Elias would worry about his circulation at all makes Peter pause, unfamiliar now with the level of thought going into this. His own level of comfort is usually a non-issue, mostly because nobody gets him into these situations. By design, of course, but it is still an odd thing to sit in his chest for the silent moment while Elias sits and puts the cuffs on him, Peter standing in front of him. His level of nudity is something that Elias has seen before, on _multiple_ occasions, but now he does feel a touch self-conscious under that gaze. He chalks it up to his frayed nerves from earlier in the evening that Peter is now _over_ as arrogance starts seeping back in. 

Elias makes _quite_ a sight, and Peter wonders more now that he's unclothed what he's gotten up to in the past few months. The difference isn't _drastic,_ but Peter silently appreciates him as he gets on the bed. Putting his knee on the bed to follow, he gets in close and puts his hand on Elias' hip and rests it there. "It's only too disgusting if you don't have an open mind. I rather enjoy how you taste." Sliding his hand up to grab Elias by the waist to pull him closer, Peter bends in to kiss him. Reminiscent of earlier in the entryway, except this time Peter is feeling _much_ more up to the task and with a distinct hunger gnawing away at his insides to take everything Elias will give.

Elias doesn't try to overwhelm him, this time. The kiss is very much a mutual thing—Elias has his appetites for ruination and control, but he is also possessing of a vast and deadly patience. Still, the grip he takes on Peter's shoulder is firm and grounding, and he further traps him close with a leg thrown over his hip. He's perfectly content to live there for a while.

When he needs to break for air a second time, Elias slides himself further up the mattress instead of pushing Peter down, putting him in line with his lean chest and decorated nipples. They've healed up well, thanks to his supernatural allegiance. Silver filigree like lace hangs down from each barbell, framing a small and shining emerald. Elias isn't shy about appreciating pretty things—he _is_ still wearing his floral earrings—and he thinks it fair to allow Peter a chance to enjoy them too.

The kiss cements him in this moment as a surprising point of fun for the evening. Peter has never been someone who enjoys kissing as it is—never mind that he can count the people he’s kissed more than once on one hand. He uses the chance though to actually touch Elias. The straightforward part of himself right now wants to indulge in tugging Elias against him, feeling along the curve of his spine, grabbing at his thigh and grinding against him subtly.

 _Desperately,_ if only inwardly. To have wallowed so long in unwanted anxiety for months leading up to Peter genuinely _enjoying_ having a _familiar_ body under his hands is overwhelming in itself, but wanting to try and not break arbitrary rules is another thing entirely.

At the very least, Peter can now shelve the remainder of his previous state of mind, pleasantly surprised to have Elias’ lovely chest presented to him. He does not hesitate to close his mouth over one of the piercings, tugging gently with his teeth while he does the same to the other with his fingers. When he detaches his mouth he _wants_ to say that the piercings are splendid, but what comes out instead is a ragged moan, pushed right into the center of Elias’ chest when his hand smooths back to grab his ass and his fingertips brush against the base of a plug. Peter is certainly taken aback, a chill going down his spine as he lifts his head to look at Elias incredulously. “That been there the whole time?” He is left wickedly breathless even as he presses his fingers against it.

It's highly pleasant to be treated with such clear and open reverence. The one-night-stands to which he is accustomed very rarely are this thorough. They tend to run selfish, occasionally furtive, or nervous in their actions. There's a charm to that too, especially when Elias is fortunate enough to find a person very new to gay spaces indeed. He likes the doubt. And the vain part of him likes to impress.

Here though, in _his_ space, with a Lonely man focused on attending to _him_ and not for the first time this evening—well, that feels like something of a victory, doesn't it? Peter genuinely _wants_ to be here, doing this. Playing with his piercings and being rewarded in kind by square fingernails raking light across his arms and shoulders.

He meets Peter's eyes when spoken to. Pity that Elias is too accustomed to the plug's presence in him by now to do much more than hum and minutely arch back into the touch. "It has. Given our previous interactions, I rather expected you to bend me over in the garden or a toilet somewhere." Not that he's complaining about where the evening has gone when he gets to take in Peter's surprise. "Or the car. I wouldn't have minded the car." He's hardly young, but he's entitled to a bit of carefree recklessness from time to time.

Listening to Elias, he realizes now, belatedly, how he definitely had all of the opportunities to do exactly that. Instead, he had come across as a kicked puppy, or perhaps a frightened child. Peter would not make the same mistake again, to be so caught up in a whirlwind that he forgets to take what he wants. Still, he has to recognize that being given instructions and told what to do hits home in a way he adamantly does not want to examine.

He would rather examine this situation in front of him: pulling the plug out, Peter tosses it elsewhere on the sheets as he says, “Oh really now? I’ll keep that in mind next time I end up in your car. Bit of a hop in the back, fuck you full of come, and pop the plug back in.” About to move his head down, Peter hesitates for a moment before first popping back up to kiss Elias again. And _then_ he heads down as he says, “Before my mouth is too _disgusting_ for you.”

Readjusting into a better position, Peter spreads Elias’ legs with both palms on his inner thighs. He’s _marvellous_ to look at, better still to touch, even more to kiss—dropping his head, Peter places a wet kiss to the base of his cock. Just to tease, moving in rather quickly to the sensitive skin further down toward his balls. Peter pays extra attention to Elias’ perineum, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh as he closes his eyes and inhales. Just what he’s looking for, the musk of sweat from the humid evening is present. It’s almost _intoxicating._

Peter is a terrible man for subjecting Elias to those kinds of _thoughts._ He's having trouble remembering the last time he's had car sex—probably ten years, at least—but he can imagine it as clear as day. The frustrating tangle of too-warm clothing; the need for closeness and the desperation. Being pushed down and made to lick his own come off the cream leather seats. Peter filling him up and forcing him to wear that mess for the rest of the day. The not-enough stretch of the plug, teasing his oversensitive entrance whenever he moves. 

Elias is so caught up in his own imagination that he hardly notices Peter moving on until he's already gone and done it. It's _highly_ tempting to let him stay where he is and partake at his leisure, but Elias reminds himself that he doesn't want his control undermined, which is why he disapprovingly tuts at him and shifts away.

"Now, aren't you getting a bit ahead of yourself?" Elias climbs off the bed's far side so he doesn't have to clamber over Peter. Picks up the used butt plug in a tissue and sets it on the other nightstand to be attended to later. "You wanted to be tied up and denied, you said. I don't trust you not to touch yourself when you clearly love it _that_ much."

Elias circles around the bed, crossing back to where the cane and rope are, and picks up the latter to undo its binding coil. "On your back, hands above your head. Unless you _don't_ want me to sit on your face."

Peter already knew he wasn’t going to get to do this on his own terms, and that is confirmed with Elias’ very correct assumption that Peter would have at least rubbed off on the sheets if not jerked himself off directly—it doesn't escape him either that Elias getting off the bed is part of the denial. But the promise of Elias sitting on his face is decidedly _much_ better than getting what he wants immediately, and has Peter sitting up as he comes around the bed. 

“How cruel, tying up a defenceless sea captain such as myself.” A bit of harmless teasing even as he does as Elias instructs, watching him undoing the rope. This is... markedly more safe than the last time he had been tied up and used by someone, but Peter is not complaining. He knows it is more than he deserves to have this sort of consideration from Elias especially, and he will gladly take it.

Elias clears most of the pillows out of the way to make room but leaves one so Peter won't have to strain his neck so much. Tying Peter up is going to take a couple of minutes at the very least, so they may as well chat. "Defenceless? Please." Elias threads one of the rope's ends through the metal loop on Peter's left cuff, then winds the rest of it around and through the headboard's slats. "The last time I saw you captaining, I watched you kill seven people." He ensures that Peter's arm isn't under any strain before he starts tying off the other wrist. "Did you end up reading the statement?"

"Seven people? I did no such thing," Peter says in mock horror as he watches Elias work with purpose. "You won't make me admit to the hypothetical crimes of a ghost. Speaking of, yes, and it was _very_ well-researched." Peter only keeps up the artificial ruse of ignorance until he takes a breath while Elias switches off. He does not let on that the reverence in his carefully written words had saddled Peter with unnecessary emotions, but he does say, "Might start calling myself ‘The Ferryman’—it has a ring to it. You made me into a monstrous-sounding spectre, it was _very_ enjoyable."

It warms Elias' heart to hear that, it truly does. It's probably fortunate that his arm is shielding most of his face from view so Peter doesn't have to see his sentimental little smile. "Thank you. Beholding does have an appreciation for the dramatic. And you _were_ a spectre for the people there. I'm sure you'll continue to haunt the seven survivors as well." Elias ties the rope off at Peter's wrist and pushes the remainder of the rope through the slats to let it dangle out of their way. He tries pulling on Peter's arms, simulating a struggle and making sure they hold. Satisfied, he nods.

Elias picks up the cane and finally climbs on top of him. In his shifting to get into a workable position, he gets rasped by Peter's beard a bit, but that's not a worry. A small price to pay for the possibilities of what he can do to the wonderfully _vulnerable_ body below him.

“I am sure I will be a nightmare for years to come,” Peter says before Elias starts getting into place. When Elias had tested the knots he had made with the rope, Peter had gone right along with it, but _oh_ how soon a human forgets that they are tied up. Peter tries to move his arms so he can get his hands on Elias, and he’s met with resistance that makes him twist his forearms. 

For a couple of excruciatingly long moments, Elias is _much_ too far away for Peter’s tastes. The curve of Elias’ cheek brushes against his beard, and then so do his teeth as he takes a gentle bite. Just to be rude, and to see if Elias would do anything about it.

No sharp comment comes, and no sigh nor audible hitch of breath either. If Peter wants reactions, then he's going to have to put the effort in. And if he wants to stop the irritation that is a snare-drum tapping on his chest with the cane, then he'll have to stop being an annoyance.

"I wonder how long you'll last," Elias muses aloud. Peter's cock is attractively hard already, resting in the crease where hip meets thigh. Two can play at the teasing game, and so he traces his nails from base to tip, lifting and repeating, all with a featherlight touch. "I'm a very patient man, but I don't believe the same is true for you. How long, do you think? An hour? Two?"

Peter can’t recall a time he’s gone _hours,_ at least, not while (mostly) sober. Maybe a few rounds with _Salesa_ if they were bored enough from the handful of times Peter has had him on his ship, but never like this. Never that teasing little touch that has Peter breathing out over Elias’ hole with a barely contained moan trapped in his chest. He still finds it in himself to be cheeky though, tilting his head so he can say, “I have _plenty_ of stamina.”

 _Not nearly enough,_ he thinks, forgetting again about his restraints and hearing the frame of Elias’ bed creak softly when he moves his arms. This is already quite a few fantasies manifesting for him that he would have never thought he would actually have fulfilled. And it is with that appreciative thought that Peter leans forward and presses the flat of his tongue again to Elias’ perineum, licking one broad stripe up over his hole before he pushes his tongue easily inside with a groan.

Playing with Peter can be saved for later, and Elias straightens up to rest his hands on his own thighs. Breathes and thanks his good fortune for getting Peter to offer his mouth for the second time this evening. He himself is happily able to go down on a partner for as long as it takes before they physically remove him—he wonders if Peter is the same way, doing this. Wouldn't surprise him.

"We'll see." On a deliberate release of tension in his muscles, Elias' head lolls over to face in the vague direction of his alarm clock. "It's half-nine right now. I think you'll be begging to come before eleven." Elias takes the simpler option available of looking through his neck tattoo instead of having to crane his neck to try and get a look at Peter's face for a response.

If anything, Peter is glad that Elias lets up so he doesn’t have to try and ignore his teasing. Rather, he gets right into it, pushing his tongue in as far as he can get it at this _awful_ angle. But he does get a wonderful view up Elias’ back as he does it, and part of him doesn’t even mind the vague itch of being Watched. Pulling his tongue back, Peter asks, “Willing to bet on it?” A tasteless joke that he is fully aware is the last thing he needs, but Peter can’t find it in himself to care, working up more saliva onto the tip of his tongue and pushing against Elias’ rim.

Peter's mouth is busy but Elias is _grinning,_ up where Peter cannot see it. Grinning and shifting back because what he'd really like is to be tongue-fucked open. No matter if Peter's speech is muffled—the room is quiet and he can hear him.

"I kind of do," Elias says, and his inner enthusiasm shows through despite the disinterested words. "If I can get you to beg, or you _demand_ that I let you come, then the next time you're passing through London you have to make arrangements and meet me." Probably at his home again, Elias thinks. He got the impression last time that sharing a meal or having drinks out in public isn't Peter's preference.

_Finally,_ Elias makes it easier for him so he doesn't have to crane his neck and Peter can get to work properly. He pushes his tongue back in as his eyes shut, a little less enthused about the existence of plug previously because now that he's already stretched it means Peter doesn't get the fun of doing it for him. Not to say he isn't positively ebullient enough for the both of them, moaning as he shoves his tongue deeper and tilting his head to the side. He tastes _divine_ and Peter doesn't shy away in embarrassment from his enjoyment. 

The terms of this bet on Elias' end seem much less dangerous this time around, but pinning the work on Peter to seek him out is less than ideal. But he can agree to that, unfortunately. When he comes up for air he asks, "And if I don't?"

The touch of wet warmth sliding against flesh that had previously known only unyielding metal makes him melt and Elias, momentarily, is speechless but not silent. His choked-off gasp and reedy whine through his teeth reach his ears, and he isn't consciously aware of when he has heard those sounds before. In his thoughts, Elias likens this to having his cunt eaten, and he doesn't have that anatomy—not anymore—but for a few moments, _god,_ it feels as though he does.

Elias swallows and breathes to compose himself. Runs his fingers through Peter's chest hair and thumbs at his nipple to do the same. "I don't know, what would you like? What's worth holding out for another, oh—" Elias checks the clock again, "—eighty-five minutes?"

Peter thinks about it for a _long_ moment, distracted by Elias vocalizing his appreciation in a way that digs its claws into him. That, and the movement of his hips back while Peter’s tongue slides into him; he admittedly gets a bit _lost_ in the motions. His fists clench, wrists tugging futilely with his desire to grab onto Elias and physically pin him down face first into his bed and do this properly. Peter can feel his face is a _mess_ of spittle from his enthusiasm, a small shudder wracking his frame at even the smallest touch to his nipples. 

Letting his head drop back comfortably on the pillow, Peter pants quietly to catch his breath before he makes his decision. “I get to bend you over your desk at the Institute.” There is no need to elaborate: rather, Peter puts his tongue back to better use and moans deeply when he pushes his tongue deep and suctions his lips to Elias’ hole.

"Got a taste for public sex now, have you," Elias says around a chuckle. Again, Peter is making a loss into a very tempting outcome indeed. First 'I’ll clean your tonsils with my cock' and now _this._ It would be a downright lie to say that he's never messed around in his office before—the old desk in the room next door could share some positively _salacious_ stories, were it able—but he hasn't gotten up to any mischief in ages. And, he supposes, Peter has the option of simply disappearing to maintain his anonymity. If that happened, he probably wouldn't spirit him away as well unless he felt particularly charitable, but that's fine. "I find those terms _quite_ agreeable."

Now that that's settled, Elias returns to having his fun in a more physical sense. Peter has his restrictions about getting off but _he_ doesn't, and Elias is convinced that given enough time Peter can get him there or almost-there. Elias waits until Peter breaks for a breath to adjust his stance and lean further forwards, supporting his weight on one arm. This time, when he takes the light cane to Peter's thighs, it's with a series of crisp strikes that draw pink, regular lines across his skin.

How appropriate, to close out their bet and open another precious one in the same night; Peter doesn't need to answer to Elias' acceptance, rather absorbed in his task instead. While Peter does his best to keep his focus where it needs to be, he yelps out his shocked surprise when he feels the cane on his skin. The whip of it _stings_ while his cock jumps, moaning obscenely against Elias' cheek when his head lolls to the side. It earns him another hit, and in response, Peter gets right back to eating Elias out.

Elias has always had a bit of a weakness for hurting a partner while getting orally serviced—the groans and cries are just _nice_ is all. Whimpering is even better, though he's not quite sure he can get Peter there with this. The _fear_ though, fear of suffering; fear of neglect; fear of the unknown—why, this sort of thing ticks several of those boxes.

Having already done a number on Peter psychologically earlier at the party, Elias would love to torment his physical self as well. So he continues subjecting him to the cane's cruel attentions on the tops of his thighs and, parting them with a conductor's direction made physical, on the tender flesh between them as well. It's a good hurt; an invigorating hurt; a sharp sting and warmth in the wake. The repetition is the overwhelming thing, here. Each percussive beat-on-beat layers a new welt on top of welts, and Elias is _very_ taken by the visual of that indeed.

He's taken, too, by Peter's cock, full and flushed without even being struck. Elias wants to touch it, but he's not about to give him the relief of a merciful hand. No, the cane is the thing that slips underneath to lift and drop it on his belly, and also the thing that adjusts it back to centre (correcting his posture, impersonal.) Making an appealing surface to tap across, careful but not delicate. Elias establishes a level of controlled force for Peter, getting him used to it, before he whips through the air with an audible cleave in a strike that does not connect. Or, at least, not beyond a couple of soft taps to his balls.

Each strike against his flesh makes Peter squirm, the sting of pain bringing far too much pleasure with it. With Elias pinning him under his weight and Peter unable to move his upper body at _all,_ it leaves his hips to twist, bringing his knees up with his feet flat to the bed and his legs spread wider. The teasing attention to his balls especially makes Peter moan deep in his chest, the sound turning into something adjacent to a whimper while he works. 

A part of him wants to do _good_ here, to make Elias feel good and get back in his graces. They had of course talked about it just before, but Peter wants _this_ again already; he wants Elias to use him as he sees fit, no better than a tongue. He redoubles his efforts, pushing his tongue in deep, sliding wet against the inside of Elias' ass and groaning again as he repeats the motion faster. Fucking him with his tongue, hoping it is enough to satisfy Elias even as his cock starts to _throb_ with his own need.

Peter moans and makes an effort and he loves that. Writhes and struggles and he loves that. Arches into and away from him; an arch the shape of his legs, bowed, humbled. He savours the stripes and the shaking and Peter's aching, and he aches too, to be filled by something more solid than Peter's tongue; to have his nerves rubbed raw until he doesn't have to think about anything at all. Elias abandons the cane to ride Peter's face, rocking his weight down on him like a dildo; like an _object._

Elias is wet but hard too, consumed by the need to touch himself, but the dichotomy tells him not to jerk himself off but instead to spit on his fingertips and rub that slickness into the head of his cock and he does it, he does it. He has all of these experiences but this is through the lens of Elias; not through his eyes, no, but him embodied.

Elias has a pulse, and he has a drive, and he has the things that make him masculine. Jonah had a pulse, once, and he had a drive, and he had the things that made him not-masculine. Not feminine, either—he loathed that word as Jonah and tolerated it as Josephine but even then he secretly, quietly, thought himself not-feminine. Just a body, stolen, to hold his eyes and serve his Institute; serve her-husband-the-director in name if not in deed, and the sex was jarring but not _bad,_ and he adjusted with the times as he has always done and the times adjusted around him.

This, right here, is what he most prefers. He's always liked the weight of a cock in his grasp and when it's _his_ it's _good_ —worth killing for, even. He likes the tightening of his balls and the hint of wetness beyond spit at the tip of his cock. Anal, he _really_ likes that. It kills some of the spontaneity of vaginal sex but at least he doesn't have to think about children, perish the thought. And at least he doesn't have to sell people on the idea that his body is not a feminine one. He likes being able to inhabit gay spaces as one of them, unarguably, and to bed who he likes knowing that he doesn't have to worry about not matching up with the idea of what a gay man's body looks like.

A peculiar insight he's picked up about sex: though the physiology is different, orgasm itself is much the same. The experience differs between bodies, not sexes. When Jonah used to come it was _long,_ in rolling waves that turned thought-obliterating sharpness into soothing liquid heat. James had been much the same way. Elias, though, is different—he peaks harsh enough to knock the air right out of him; a release, all at once, of the violence sitting, waiting. And in the aftermath sometimes he feels invigorated, wanting to continue even though he's spent.

And in the aftermath here, he looks down at where he's spent across Peter's chest, and the want for motion moves him off of Peter's face, and he hears the both of them panting but he does not care. Elias climbs off of him and turns around and climbs back on and does not meet his gaze at all. All he does is rest his cock on Peter's chest and squeeze his flesh to make a channel of his pectorals for him to slide into, because he's been wanting to do that for _ages_ and Peter with his arms bound can't exactly stop him. Elias smears his come into Peter's grey-brown hair and he appreciates the sight of it much more than any actual stimulation, for he has always had an eye for the aesthetics of debauchery.

To put it simply, Peter _burns._ His face, his skin, inside of his chest along with the racing of his pulse. Peter burns in his torturous thoughts; his _eyes_ as he stares at Elias, threatening to be consumed by the raging inferno that is his complete desire. He wants to _touch,_ now more that he’s had his want to taste him satisfied. 

Being used; forgotten about in the grand scheme of Elias getting himself off while riding his face, Peter feels properly _indulged._ Elias’ mind had been miles away, Peter could feel it in how he moved as he came across Peter’s chest. Unabashed and extravagant in his own pleasure, with the confidence that could only be ascribed to someone who knew what they wanted, but also what _he_ wanted. That in itself had been enough to leave Peter shaking, hard and leaking against his stomach, _aching_ to be touched while breathing hard. 

_That,_ really and truly, had been enough to gratify his objectification wish, _oh,_ Elias really and truly could have stopped there and Peter might have considered begging Elias to let him come. Instead, his head stops processing his own thoughts the moment Elias sits on his chest facing Peter. It feels like someone has taken a fire extinguisher to his brain’s control panel with the intensity of Peter’s short-circuiting. The awe of watching Elias fucking his chest leaves him _breathless,_ more when he realizes that Elias won’t look at him. Useless in this equation besides to provide stimulation, and Peter has _never_ felt so... _used._

It is _intoxicating._

Being obliged in such an impersonal way, an entirely different, unfamiliar feeling washes over him as movement starts to come back to Peter. He puffs his chest up while struggling again against his bonds, making a distressed sound in his throat entirely unwillingly. Distantly, his thighs itch from the abuse that leaves his skin stinging and raw, and the drool cooling on his neck for the second time tonight leaves his skin feeling gross, but the mere _idea_ of laying in Elias’ bed to be _ruined_ keeps his complaints under wraps. 

A man like himself could get used to this if he were not careful. Rendered immobile and destined to be at the mercy of a cruel man who seemingly (undoubtedly) knows _exactly_ how to treat him to render him speechless and impassioned. How _awful_ of a thought, to nearly be enamoured; the collective of his family would scoff at him, something that slips away from his mind just as fast as it had entered, squirming on the sheets as he moans out, _“Elias…”_

Elias hushes him, sharp and immediate. Doesn't want unnecessary speech to go spoiling the sanctity of the moment. He rolls his hips and drinks his fill of the picture he has made, thighs still trembling with the aftershocks. Shifts up and has Peter clean his cock with a quiet word. Shifts back, off, and bends double to lick the remainder from Peter's warm and rising chest. Loses himself a bit in the smell of him: salt and bitter juniper, and funny how he'd made that comment about him and gin when his scent gestures to it. Elias pillows his cheek on him, closes his eyes, and momentarily rests in the wave-rhythm of Peter's breathing.

On his own time, heedless of what the body below him is thinking or doing, Elias comes back to the idea of practical matters. Sighing, Elias gets off the bed to crack open one of the water bottles he keeps on hand. Only when he sufficiently feels refreshed on that does he put Peter's glass of water to his lips so that he, too, may drink. Elias even props him up on the pillow and brushes the hair from his face and as much as it seems like fussing, Elias isn't doing it for his comfort—he's doing it for the sake of Peter's view. "Ready for more?"

Being shushed brings back brief, fleeting memories of being a small child and getting quieted immediately while fussing. Eventually, Peter learned to listen, but _now,_ he recognizes that he does not want to _disappoint_ Elias and cause this to end prematurely or not be repeated at all, perish the thought. Do not speak unless spoken to, and his reward leaves him close to _trembling._ Such a brief taste of him, but Elias cleans Peter up with his tongue which makes him _squirm._ More importantly, they take a moment to wind down even while Peter is still hard and needy, Elias laying atop him in such a way where Peter might even be content to lie there with Elias’ weight on him. The thought that this is comfortable is _startling,_ but the moment is over too soon for Peter to really savour and examine it.

He is allowed to catch his breath, and he watches Elias move around the room to refresh himself. Peter, too, is given a drink of water, the awkward angle of the glass making a bit spill out and down his face, but he hardly cares. He focuses instead on being rearranged and the gentle touch without intent, not leaning into it while appreciating all the same that he’s being _asked_ if he’s ready. Peter could say no, or he could say he’s done and walk out of here right now, but he does not want that. It would defeat the point of his honesty tonight, not to mention he would like to win that bet. No, tonight, even though he is stuck to the sheets with sweat from the humidity and his own exertion, the thought of being in Elias’ company like this sits well with him. Letting him have the control feels _right._ At the question, Peter nods and says, “Yes.”

_"Excellent,"_ Elias responds, and leaves him be to fiddle with the contents of the nightstand's other drawers. He had promised to treat him very badly and Peter echoed it in his voiced desire of 'like he is less than dirt', so Elias continues to make the conscious choice to (responsibly) care little for him. Being that it's amusement and not malice motivating his actions, Elias Bouchard is thorough: he slips on a black nitrile glove and uses plenty of lube in slicking up his fingers, bringing the bottle with him when he climbs back up on the bed. Generally speaking he could go either way on these, but he doesn't want to go jabbing at Peter's insides with a fresh manicure—that's _careless_ in Elias' books, and that isn't what he's aiming for.

Settling between Peter's legs, he runs his bare hand up and down the cane-marks and lets his pleased smile speak for itself. Elias regards his cock in much the same way, seeing that up close he is still so _very_ eager. "Honestly, Peter. I'm not sure which has worked you up more: eating me out or sucking my cock?" His one hand smooths over his hip and stomach; the other settles down between his legs, resting the pad of one finger against his entrance. Not pushing—he'll open up to Elias on his own time, he's sure. "If I had to guess—and I don't—I'd say you rather _liked_ being afraid."

Peter is grateful for the extended moment to gather himself, because the sight that Elias presents makes him _ache_ to be touched. A wish that is granted when Elias’ hands roam down his body. He sighs at the feel of Elias’ finger, but doesn’t move against it, instead choosing to respond to him verbally, “As much as you enjoy being my tormentor.” 

The taste of him earlier in the evening had been a _deep_ curiosity for the months he had been at sea. He had thought about the scent of Elias’ undergarment from so long ago more often than he cared to admit; that alone had his mouth watering before he’d even gotten on his knees that evening. When Elias had said _‘no you aren’t’_ in exchange to his wish to leave that party, Peter had nearly gone weak at the knees. The taste of his cock did not disappoint, and neither did anything else that followed, having gotten worked up all night in different ways. The _fear_ part of it had laid him open at Elias’ feet, but after having had that time to process it, Peter can’t deny his claim.

Elias' answering grin is wickedly delighted. "Oh, _that_ much?" He settles down on his elbows to put his lips on Peter at last, turning his head to the side to kiss him on the inside of an abused thigh. There is a noticeable difference in radiating heat from where he has been struck and where he has not.

"On that note, I'll share something with you. Considering you're a captive audience at present." Elias kisses him again, higher, and again higher still. Settles into the join of leg and hip and noses into his hair. Not once has he met Peter's eyes, but that doesn't preclude him from watching. "At the party, when I was, ah—trying to feed your god, so to speak. All of that? Everything I told you? That was all guesswork. _Conjecture._ " He pauses for a moment to mouth at Peter's balls, eyes closed, blind but Seeing. "Mm. Before I made a show of using my gifts, I wasn't relying on them at _all._ You're that easy to read, Peter. I feel like I might even know you better than you know yourself."

Elias pats him on the leg and bites his nails in, just a little. While he's been chatting, he has also been formulating ideas on how to antagonize Peter even further. Before he can second-guess himself and before they get too far along with the fingering and all, Elias climbs off of the bed altogether. Picks up his water bottle and takes a sip as he walks over to the room's vanity. He can't get a good visual on Peter from this spot with the footboard in the way, which suits him just fine because that also means Peter won't be able to see what he's up to. Which, at the moment, involves searching through some not-often-used drawers. "Crimson, plum, or burgundy, do you think?"

Peter doesn’t have much of a will to respond beyond the choked gasp Elias drags out of him with the brief attention to his balls. To say his body is sensitive right now would be a gross understatement: he's practically buzzing under Elias’ lips even as he says things that would do much more to shake Peter if he didn’t already know that he’s speaking the truth. Elias has certainly done his best to get under Peter’s skin in such a way that he _does_ feel bared, and he can’t bring himself to be much ashamed of how he leans into his touches. 

When Elias gets off the bed, Peter breathes shakily, accidentally making the bed creak when he forgets about his arms again for the hundredth time. His body is starting to ache from being unable to put his arms down; he knows that he will be feeling this for _days_ afterward, and that is the thought he focuses on. The realization blooms that Elias had been right earlier in the evening—that he has _no idea_ what connection is. It is quietly _mortifying_ this his first thought while watching Elias walk away is that he wants nothing more than to have him come back and touch him. He wants the teasing to continue, and he’ll even take the jeering if it means Elias is talking to him. 

If _this_ is what he has been missing and what his God has been pushing him towards each time the gnawing ache of his self-imposed solitary confinement nearly became too much over the past few months, then it is perhaps the cruellest joke ever surmised.

The sound of Elias’ voice falls on Peter’s ears, though, and his head tries to follow the sound, but he cannot see him. The question sounds innocent enough, but without knowing why he’s being asked, he is wary. Thinking for a moment, Peter can feel the blood rushing in his ears, swallowing thickly to combat the ringing so he can answer, “Burgundy.”

An approving hum and a, "Good choice," answer back. And for the second—no, _third_ time tonight, Elias makes Peter wait.

Elias is a firm believer in not rushing beauty, for he knows full well how powerful a tool appearances can be. Much as he wants to indulge himself right now, the satisfaction that he'd get from catching Peter off-guard would be more than worth the pause. He is thorough about one-handedly applying a dark, rich berry-burgundy to his lips and going over it again with a glossy finish. To the mirror, he nods his satisfaction, and leaves the colour out in case he wants to reapply it later.

This time, when Elias comes back, he actually _does_ meet Peter's eyes, for a moment, to antagonize him with his red and wicked smile. He takes a moment standing up to run his hand along Peter's ribs and, by chance, catches the sight of an image up high on his side. A tattoo of a lighthouse, black and white and crosshatch-shaded, with a beam of light shining out towards his front. Elias rolls him over slightly to get a better look and notes its fading and its age. It's certainly not the first mark of its kind that he has seen.

"I was wondering where you were keeping this," Elias murmurs, and he leans down to kiss it, knowing exactly the kind of desecration he's causing in smudging a hint of colour into the Lonely desaturation.

Peter gets another boost of anxiety over what Elias is doing, but that ends the moment he steps back into view with the bold colour choice of lipstick adorning his face. Something _deep_ and desperate pushes away the confusion and leaves Peter honestly and truly starstruck, his breath hitching and heart skipping a beat. His body’s reaction is immediate and intense in a way he hasn’t felt since the time he’d accidentally stumbled in on his maths tutor getting fucked by the gardener. A memory that is unearthed at the _wrong_ time, but the comparison of that having felt like lightning down his spine is the closest Peter can get to seeing Elias in lipstick. 

But it makes him shake.

And Elias’ touch makes him shiver.

And when he feels the wet press of Elias’ lips to his side, Peter _whines_ and twists against the rope attached to the cuffs, trying not to thrash as his cock jumps.

It makes him squeeze his thighs together in arousal and shame and _humiliation_ once he takes a breath that feels far too wobbly; the tattoo is something that Peter frequently forgets about. A tattoo that had once been a symbol of the coming of age of a Lukas child. Lighthouse keepers through _centuries,_ sure, but the etching of the design is a tradition started by Mordechai’s father, or perhaps grandfather? The family lineage is not something Peter is well-versed in on a good day, less so when he’s about to be sexually teased to death, but it is an _old_ tradition that had morphed into being a symbol of devotion to the Lukas family’s... other exploits. 

The irony of it all is not lost on Peter, of course. It’s that he does not care tonight to keep up the pretense that the damned thing means anything to him the moment Elias’ lips make contact with his skin to leave a mark. And until this very moment, lipstick had never been something Peter found attractive on women, or at _all._ But it looks _divine_ on Elias, and he is too speechless to comment, staring up at him with obeisance.

Elias loves staring at that look so much that he sticks around to continue to observe it up close. He rolls Peter back to his original position and descends on his nipples next, rolling them between his teeth and soothing them under the warmth of his tongue. Shock and awe is a good look on Peter indeed. He expected no different.

After a bit of that, he withdraws to settle back down between Peter's legs again and refresh the lube on his glove. He does the same as before, with a finger resting on his entrance and his lips trailing kisses from his perineum all the way up to the tip of his cock. "Remember, we still have a bet going," Elias reminds him as he goes. "No begging to come or demanding that I let you."

And the fiend, the absolute _fiend_ wraps his mouth around Peter's cock at last and sucks, poised to start pressing into him whenever his tension relaxes.

Peter is _stubborn._ That is something he knows to be true, undoubtedly: that when something is in his control, he wants to come out on top by any means necessary. It’s a shame that Elias likes to play dirty, the thrill making him moan deep in his chest. There are dark splashes of colour left around his nipples, Peter’s eyes following Elias’ lips as they move. Barely a moment of reprieve before he’s got Elias’ finger back, tensing up even as he moans a choked, ruined little sound as he’s reminded of his predicament.

His fists clench, arms tugging futilely and making the headboard creak again, making another absolutely debauched sound that feels unnatural coming from his throat when Elias’s mouth goes around him. How _awful_ the pleasure feels, having been delayed so long that if Peter didn’t clench his muscles, he may have gone off far too early. But even he is not strong enough to keep that up, and after a long moment, he starts to relax. Peter closes his eyes briefly, but he opens them soon after to watch Elias. His lips, wrapped around Peter’s cock with the rich burgundy standing out so starkly makes him shiver again. Once he gets used to it, he relaxes a little more, breathing heavily to try and get his senses about him so this doesn’t end so soon.

Bit by bit, Elias slips further into the meditative space of partner-pleasing. He listens to the hitching changes in Peter's breathing and feels the way he jumps under his touch. He is especially slow and careful about letting Peter accommodate to being penetrated—it's evident from how he'd reacted to the idea earlier that this is a rare experience for him, so Elias eases him into it.

Elias keeps him occupied by blowing him in earnest and showing him exactly what he can do when he's the one in charge. It is supremely clear, early on, that his level of experience borders on inhuman. He is confident about putting on a show and _highly_ attentive to what Peter responds to. And this body's shortcomings be damned—he still forces himself down deep to gag himself on Peter's cock a few times to delight in how slick he gets under his attentions.

Peter can't even remember the last time he had been on the receiving end. It has certainly been a few years, perhaps it had been at the hand of an acquaintance, but he can't _ever_ remember even a finger feeling comfortable. Granted, those encounters were not remotely on the sober side, never letting anyone take too long with it before grunting at them that he's good to go.

Now that he has nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, he lies there helpless to Elias' expert touch. The intimacy between them, in doing this, is nearly _overwhelming_ for Peter. He lies there, torn between clenching his muscles and relaxing, whining when Elias takes his cock deep into his throat. Peter twists, scrapes his heels across the sheets as his hips buck, feeling like he's about to come and desperately trying to keep it from happening. 

Then Elias pulls off with a wet breath that makes Peter's cock jump again. It hangs heavy between his legs, covered in thick saliva that shines in the light of the lamp, faint smudges of lipstick making Peter moan another shaky sound as he tries to catch his breath.

Listening to Peter's whimpering is something that Elias has fantasized about more than a few times, and he has to admit that the real thing doesn't disappoint. Truth be told, he's always been more partial to getting those reactions from things like this instead of straightforward sadism; from overstimulating a partner to their breaking point—or beyond. That's still a possibility tonight, with Peter tied up and all.

But for now, he plays the merciful man in leaving his cock alone for a moment to allow him to recover. Elias pets over the inside of his thigh, soothing and calming him. "There, now. That's a good boy," and he grins, and he looks to the alarm clock to see that oh yes, they still have _plenty_ of time left on that bet.

Elias has been fucking him on a couple of fingers, in and out, nice and smooth and easy. Tells him, "You're taking it so well," and he shifts his focus from working him open to stroking over his prostate, a finger on each side.

Elias' praise has an _embarrassingly_ immediate effect; Peter first feels the shiver in his spine make its way to his arms, fists clenching as his arms tug hard on their bindings and making the headboard creak—his natural response is to try and curl in on himself, but he has to settle for clenching his muscles and biting back his moan. It nearly feels like the air has been knocked out of him while his cock throbs, hanging heavy above his stomach. 

It's all he can do to take a few shaky breaths before Elias rubs along a spot inside of him that is another jolt of pure _sensation._ Without realizing it, Peter hooks his leg over Elias' shoulder, _desperate_ to ground himself in some way while he moans high and half-broken in his throat. His cock drips onto his stomach, eyes clenched shut to try and focus on _anything_ else to help him through this.

Well, that's just _delightful._ Restraining Peter was the right choice, as there's no possible way he'd be able to get away with this if he weren't. He wants to see Peter thrash and struggle. He wants to watch him _scream._

But Elias, as ever, is patient. Peter's only going to hurt himself if he tries to buck with his leg wrapped around him, so Elias moves it back. With gentle words, he coaxes Peter into calmness, "That's it, nice and easy. Just relax. You can hold out. I know you can."

He doesn't stop with his fingering efforts, but nor does he intensify them. On Peter's belly, he licks up the dribble of fluid and tongues at his slit to drink down more.

It's like Peter is close to melting from the inside out, the continual pressure inside, but it's not _enough._ Elias' fingers aren't enough, even though he's started moving his hips against him. At the same time, Elias' tongue touches the head of his cock, another shock of pleasure hitting and making his hips buck up. Back and forth with a frustrated noise that turns into a moan.

He doesn't want to let Elias taunt him so blatantly: the humiliation of losing this bet would sting. At least the thought sobers him enough to start calming himself down. His confidence is shaky at best when he rushes out, "Gotta do better than that."

Elias listens with a laugh but takes that as a challenge. He's a little less careful with the third digit than he was with the other two—it's fine, and Peter would likely find the slight discomfort grounding. Elias takes a beat to think on what it is that would most undo Peter at present, since there are so many things to be done with a man tied up and he'd love to try an awful lot of them.

He sets up a normal thrusting rhythm, for a time. Rolling and deep and dragging right against Peter's core on every withdraw. Sucks his cock back in his mouth, sealing his burgundy lips tightly around him, and hardly moves down his length but lets him have it with his tongue. He does not swallow once. The spit builds up, and Peter continues to leak, and before any of it starts to drip down the side of Elias' mouth he milks Peter's prostate in earnest, stilling his pace to massage it. Stops before Peter tips over the edge and pulls his mouth off too. Elias keeps his fingers inside Peter's rim as he climbs up towards his face and wrenches his jaw open with his other hand so that he may drip the fluid coating his tongue straight into his open mouth. Spits the last of it out onto Peter's cheek.

"You would take anything I give you," Elias says with disdain. "This. My arse. My come. You'd probably let me piss in your mouth too and you would want to _thank me_ for it."

Peter feels like he’s losing his _mind_ right now, thoughts scattered and unable to keep hold of a single one that’s not Elias right now. His eyes are trained on Elias’ mouth—on the lipstick, really—while he _feels._ The attention to his cock, the fingers inside of him, and the heat coiling tighter until he thinks he _is_ about to come. His keening, frustrated moans turn into one sharp sound that struggles to make its way from his chest when Elias stops his assault on a spot inside him that he didn’t even know _existed_ until now. Before Peter can catch his breath this time, his heart skips a hard beat when Elias grabs his face, another when he _spits in his mouth,_ and it leaves him breathless when the rest lands on his cheek.

Elias is speaking, and the words are hard to focus on; Peter feels dizzy from how turned on he is.

Elias is _speaking,_ and his words are _brutal._ The repulsed tone cuts viciously through him, and _oh_ does he feel _repulsive._ Being treated like an obscene degenerate, debauched and shaking and feeling so deeply _gratified._ He doesn’t come—not _really,_ not in the way he needs—but for a moment his eyes roll back into his head and he spurts onto his belly. A ruined attempt at ejaculation that leaves Peter feeling impossibly more frustrated while his body struggles again against the sheets blindly, a sob of mortification forcing its way out of himself.

Elias sees Peter do that, and he looks down at the length of his body to see if he actually did just come from being talked off. He decides no—or probably not, since there is still so much tension in him. And those bitter tears beading in his eyes—they are simply perfect.

Elias gathers up Peter's release with his hand and smears the bitterness across his tongue. If he wants to swallow, he's going to have to do it around Elias' fingers, shoved in deep and hunting around to see if he can't set off Peter's gag reflex. And throughout it, he continues speaking.

"God, you _would,"_ Elias says, disgusted as ever. "If I had a cunt, I'd sit on your face and make you suck down my blood too. Get it all over your beard and moustache. Stain you with it so _everyone_ knows what you've been doing." For effect, Elias withdraws his hand and trails dripping fingers down his chin, dampening his once-entirely brown hair that is now well on its way to going grey. He scoffs, "It's a pity you're not blond."

Peter is past stunned, staring up at Elias with a veneration that feels alien to him—but _right._ Horribly, disgustingly _right,_ down to him shoving his fingers down Peter's throat and very nearly making him gag if not for how eager he is for the attention; he listens to him, but can't form words for a reply. He certainly can't do anything else but take it all, just like Elias _said_ he would. Even the cunt talk, something even more unfamiliar to him than this, but _God_ does the filth of it sit under his skin.

Satisfied with what he's done to Peter's mental state, Elias goes back between Peter's legs and returns to his old and pleasurable tortures. He closes his eyes, exhales a calming breath out over Peter's cock, and allows his patron's flickering influence to tickle in his skull and behind his eyes, sharpening his intuition even further. With new uncanny insight, Elias touches him in all the ways he most loves to be touched and exploits that knowledge by walking him over to the precipice of orgasm and holding him back, time and time again. This, right here, is what Elias has been trying to achieve all evening—a man wholly at his mercy and deliciously, deliberately _vulnerable._

When finally Peter's body is worked into a frenzy and his excitement ceases to abate when Elias pauses, that is when he decides to give him what he so desperately needs. Elias assaults him with stimulation inside and out, fucking him and pumping him and sliding him across his heated tongue. And because he is an awful man, and because he has the power to steal a piece of Peter's bodily autonomy away, he forces him to watch, unblinking, for the entire time he releases into Elias' open, ready mouth. Elias has him view the come and drool drip out, covering his cock again, and has him watch the way he sucks it audibly back in, moaning all the while.

Elias lets him go after that, but he doesn't stop playing with his come, and he certainly does not stop enjoying Peter trembling around and under him.

He is _helpless,_ beyond any measure of the word that Peter is familiar with, but that is the closest he could possibly come to describing the feeling of being edged to the point of tears. To yelling so hard that his throat feels _raw._ His entire body buzzing like a cathedral full of bees to put it _lightly._ Hollow and empty and seen and touched and tasted into such a complete, debilitating submission, that there are no coherent thoughts left. 

Forced to watch as Elias makes a filthy mess all over his cock, sated down to his _bones._ He shakes, and pants, and gasps in the aftermath of coming. Quivering with tremors and aftershocks and unable to look away. Without his usual Lonely thoughts and doubts floating around in his head, Peter lets his body finally sag, exhausted and relaxed. _Vulnerable._

If he's being _entirely_ honest with himself, Elias would love to help himself to Peter's overwhelmed body and try to wrench yet more screaming from him, this time with his cock. Maybe threaten him a bit with a hand around his throat to watch him twitch and struggle. But that would be taking advantage, and Peter is so new to this that Elias doesn't want to sour his experience in that way. So he does the responsible thing and holds off.

Elias lets his senses settle back to their baseline, swallows with a pleased hum, and begins attending to material things. Like disposing of the glove, wiping off his hands, and sitting next to Peter to start undoing the buckles on his bondage cuffs. The rope is going to take some fussing with to remove, so this is the easier path to getting Peter freed.

Peter does not have a concept of time right now, long gone out the window with everything that had been done to him, so he does not know how long it takes to come back to himself. He is grateful when his wrists are freed, finally putting his arms down while his body calms down. And then eventually Peter feels _disgusting,_ which is the point, sure, but being mentally indulged is different from having sweat and come and spit and _everything_ else drying on his skin.

Left raw in the most real sense possible, welts forming on his thighs and _covered_ in dark lipstick marks that break and smudge and make him shiver even in the aftermath. Even if Peter could speak, he doesn't know what to say, satiated on a level he didn't think was possible—certainly not from being on Elias' fingers. Briefly, distantly, he wonders about being on his cock, but the exhaustion seeping into his bones doesn't let him think too hard on that. Instead, he lies there and recuperates while his normally patron-aligned thoughts are still kept at bay by the ringing in his ears.

Elias notes, with a peculiar satisfaction, how Peter's receptive mental state continues long after he is freed. He doesn't fuss, and he doesn't try to speak, and he doesn't make to leave at all. Elias allows himself the thought that he'd like to see Peter willingly in his bed again more often.

Having been in Peter's place many times in his life, he knows that there are certain things the body needs: water, warmth, and the like. So Elias passes him his glass and insists he drink, getting up to fetch the bottle from the vanity and doing that himself at the reminder. He tugs the sheets up over Peter's body to spare the duvet the stains when he puts that back into its proper place. Then he climbs in bed next to him, reclining on his side and daring to stroke up and down his arm a bit—Elias doesn't know how he'd do with proper cuddling, so he makes no attempt to force it on him.

There is a grateful note to him that doesn’t get spoken aloud when Elias hands him his glass of water, draining the rest of it and still feeling thirsty after. But he doesn’t ask for any more. He doesn’t ask for anything else, either, more out of stubbornness than anything. But he notes Elias putting the duvet back on the bed, pulling it up, and then lying down with him.

The stroking of his arm does make him remember the last time he’d gotten such an intimate touch, different from sexual intimacy. He had kicked Elias out of his hotel room after treating him _horribly,_ and it is not lost on him that Elias is not doing the same, even though he has a right to. The feeling it inspires in him is ...weird. There is no comparison to other feelings he has had—this is just _weird._ Staying here is not on his agenda tonight, but leaving so abruptly when Peter still feels like he is made of rubber would upset this moment he’s finding himself in that could go _any_ direction. A quiet shock to himself, but he doesn’t want it to sour like their last parting. This had been... enjoyable. _Fun._ And he would like to have this again.

The silence, for once, is too deafening for him to keep it up, so he asks the first question that comes to mind. “Do you think I would look better blond?”

Elias gives him a puzzled look, wondering where that question came from until he takes a beat to realize what he'd previously said. Another beat, and he realizes there are potentially a lot of implications to be drawn from his words. He doesn't want to have that conversation tonight—or at all, ideally. If he could keep Peter focused on that one comment, that'd be perfect.

"Ah. I only said that because it stains." Elias attempts to mollify him by scratching at his sideburn, then up into his hair. It's a bit of a disaster, but then again, he's sure he looks the same. "I like you like this. It suits you." Even the grey, admittedly. He's lived well into old age enough times for him to find plenty of charm in it, even if he's hardly there himself this time around.

Elias resigns himself to the fact that Peter is probably done for the evening and relaxes more into his pillow. Over Peter's chest, he can see the alarm clock ticking over to another minute past eleven, and he scoffs out an amused laugh. "Guess you'll be bending me over my desk at work after all."

Peter takes it at face value and concedes that yes, blond hair does stain much better than greying brown hair. It is a line of thought he doesn't pursue further beyond some preening for Elias saying he looks good as he is. An ego stroke that he knows is not that deep of an intention, but it still makes this easier to handle. More when he looks at the clock and sees the time. "Are you sure I won't have to call ahead? Because I _will_ show up whenever I please."

"It would be _courteous,_ but not necessary. Do check in with Rosie, though, and make sure I'm not in a meeting." It's good to make that clear when well he's aware of the Lukases' ability to move about unseen. He'd like at least a _minute_ of forewarning. "I'm in the office from six 'til six on weekdays, unless I have other engagements."

Elias stops messing around with Peter's hair to lay an arm across Peter's chest instead, on top of the duvet. "Now, if you have _requests,_ then you would have to call ahead for those. Clothing, toys, or the like."

"Twelve hours a day cooped up in an office in London? You _are_ a masochist," Peter says with a laugh, focusing on the wrong bit. The rest of it is filed away as useful information, though Peter has no current plans in his head. He will have to think long and hard about that as it is, but he is sure he will think of _something._ At the very least, he actually won the bet, so he will feel smug about that for now. 

The familiarity, however small the gesture, is another _weird_ feeling. He doesn't outright hate it for it happening, but he knows he will leave before the morning comes. The thought of getting comfortable is _uncomfortable,_ but the weight of Elias' arm is not terrible. Not when he's exhausted like this.

"Yes, yes," Elias grumbles, having heard it all before. At least his workspace and his living quarters are in different buildings now. It takes effort, sometimes, to get himself to leave the office, but he knows that's what's best for his health. Existing in a bastion of the Eye is energizing, sure, but the stress eventually takes its toll on him, especially when he hasn't quite perfected the medication regime that this body needs in order to function at peak performance. Psychiatric medications are always a nightmare to figure out.

But enough of those thoughts. He's got a companion in bed with him, and he's still expected to play the part of the gracious host. "If you'd rather not make the trip back to your hotel tonight, you're welcome to the guest room. And the showers, naturally."

Again, distantly, Peter has the urge to kiss him when they have a short silence, but that is ruined when Peter is welcomed to the _guest_ room. He should have not even expected that much, but it breaks the spell of the mood and he tucks away the absurd thought of resting for even another moment in this bed tonight. "I will take you up on the shower, certainly. You _really_ did a number on me, Bouchard. I feel like I sweat out my body weight," Peter says with a quiet, low whistle, sitting up and sobering up from the evening quick while he rubs at his wrists.

"Blame your own damnable endurance," Elias jokes. His eye is naturally drawn towards the state of Peter's wrists and assesses them as not terribly bad at all. Bit of bruising tomorrow, maybe. If he'd been in ropes or handcuffs (heavens forbid, he'd been a _wreck_ the last time he'd worn them), the damage would be far worse.

Elias clambers out of bed himself, intending to get the shower started for Peter since the controls aren't exactly intuitive. For now, though, he unclips his earrings as he wanders over to the vanity. "Besides, I'm only one man. There was a time in my life where I was regularly having five, at least. Sometimes seven." If Elias is bluffing about that, he must be well-practiced indeed at hiding his deception behind a smirk.

Peter falters at that, remembering then what Simon had briefly told him about their... gatherings, with Jonah Magnus as the feast. The look on his face makes him believe Elias, whether or not it's a taunt to make him suffer. Not his concern currently, Peter standing approximately behind Elias in the reflection of the vanity, catching sight of the lipstick marks. The feeling he gets is _odd,_ but he won't examine that immediately. Rather, he waits for Elias to direct him on where to go. He's not sure what to say in response after some thought, so instead, he deflects and goes to pick up his clothing so he can change back into it once he's done his shower.

Peter doesn't seem to want to engage with that, which Elias supposes is fair. In silence, he puts the bone earrings away in their rightful place in his jewelry box, then leads the way into the ensuite to get the shower running for Peter. It's a large glass-walled walk-in affair, big enough to contain a bench with plenty of room to spare. The room, like the rest of the apartment, is nice without being wastefully showy. With that done, Elias sets a fresh towel and washcloth for Peter down on the countertop.

He stays in the bathroom for another minute to get his makeup properly removed. Most of the lipstick _had_ ended up on Peter, he notices with amusement. It's certainly _a_ look he's been wearing up 'til now. Cleaned up, with Peter busy doing the same, Elias gives him his privacy to throw a robe on and disappear into the kitchen. He doesn't _need_ to eat, but he's not sure whether or not Peter does, and it gives him something to occupy himself with in the meantime.

The silence at least helps Peter reign himself back in, locking himself back up along with whatever confusing emotions had been unearthed tonight. He's glad to get the sweat washed off, using one of Elias' bottles of body wash. He doesn't read the label until the smell hits him, fresh and herbal turning out to be a rosemary and lemon scent that gets scrubbed deep into his skin. He takes care to inspect the rest of the bottles to see what their uses are, and he ends up washing his face with something that is far more minty than he expected. The shampoo is also vaguely herbal, but the print on the bottle is a bit too small for him to really care what it is, but he uses that too. 

It's nice to stand under the cool spray for a bit, thinking about how enjoyable a night this ended up being despite his hesitance. The air is mostly cleared now though, and he can deal with that. It brings order back and soothes his frayed consciousness; lets him go back to regarding Elias loosely as a colleague that he will be able to fuck around with. No feelings attached, nothing complicated. Peter can do that now that he has done his apology, though it is a testament to how _awful_ his habits are to jump immediately into another bet. 

When he leaves the shower, Peter has no remorse for brushing his teeth with Elias' toothbrush. It's quick then to dry off, though not well enough for how he does feel slightly damp getting back into his suit. He would not be staying—not in a guest bedroom to awkwardly sleep and then have to suffer leaving in the morning. When he walks out though, he does find Elias at _least_ to say he would be leaving to his face.

Elias is just taking something out of the toaster oven when Peter comes in—a breakfast sandwich on a croissant, with egg and ham and cheese. There's another half-eaten one on the counter nearby. When Elias takes in Peter's state of dress, he's neither put out by the implication nor particularly surprised. This is the most practical thing for the both of them, given tomorrow is a workday. So he takes it in stride, and instead of putting the sandwich on the plate he had set out, he folds it into a thick paper napkin for him instead.

"I take it you're leaving?" He neutrally asks.

Peter is _surprised_ at the continued hospitality, certainly not expecting to be handed something to eat. It almost makes him rethink his decision, but ultimately, he keeps with it. "My uncle is expecting me first thing in the morning to tell him about Lesley's film. I would rather not fight with London traffic on a Monday morning."

A half-hour ago he'd been making Peter all but scream in his bed, and already they're back to business. But at least this is preferable to active resentment, in Elias' view.

"True enough," he says with a slight nod. Being that he's also got an early morning and he is not inclined to dress again, Elias offers to at least call him a cab. As he's moving past him on his way into the living room to get to the phone, he asks, "Where are you off to next?"

Peter had been intending to catch whatever came by on the main road, but the offer of calling the cab saves some of the work. Peter does sit down on one of the chairs in the kitchen then, knowing it would be at least a few minutes after for dispatch to get someone here. And he lets some of the formality drop; something about having been taken apart completely and had his deep desires accounted for to his face shockingly makes it easier. "I can't imagine that I'll be home for much longer. Nathaniel has ironed out the details of the deal in Brazil for Conrad's new business ventures, so that's the real goal. The voyage will no doubt have a few more destinations tacked on to throw off port authority since it wouldn't be normal to just go from here to there, then back. Not quite sure of the schedule yet, but it'll be probably close to three months in total, I'd say."

Not quite as long as the period between their last encounter and tonight, then. Elias feels better about having at least an approximate timeframe—he's never been one for uncertainty, even before the Eye. Things ought to go in their proper place, and if that means pencilling in a tentative ‘get ravaged in my office’ into his calendar (in more vague language, naturally), then that's hardly the most unusual thing he's noted down in there before. Three months is doable. Certainly better than the year it'd taken between their first bet and Elias' reward. Gambling with sexual favours has been interesting so far, and Elias wonders if that pattern is going to continue.

"Ah, you mentioned last time. That's going well, I presume?" Elias asks to be polite, although he does have a bit of a stake in it himself, considering the relationship between the Magnus Institute and the Lukas family. He is quick about actually placing the call, voice crisp despite the late hour and the earlier activities. With that done, he returns to the kitchen to get the kettle started.

"As far as I know, yes. I don't know or care what or where Conrad is putting his operation, but he tends to keep secrets until his plans are already ready to go." Which must mean that he's getting close to things being settled so that by the time the cargo is back in the country, it will be smooth sailing.

"Wise of him," Elias says. Coffee or regular tea would be a fool's endeavour this close to midnight if he's planning on getting any sleep at all, so he goes through his cupboards in search of where he keeps the cocoa and the powdered milk. Nearly every time he bothers buying the fresh kind it ends up going off in his fridge from forgetfulness, so these days he doesn't even bother picking it up unless he has an explicit reason to. He keeps an eye on Peter as he goes about his business, waiting for him to leave. It's not kicking him out if he's the one who got himself ready to depart. "Well, if he needs any specific assistance, then he knows how to get in touch."

"I am sure he does," Peter says, thinking about the last time they had parted again. That had been an awful experience, one that he would rather not replicate. Being on this end of it, having to be the person to leave, is strange in that he doesn't _do_ this. Not like this, not ever. But now, he can better see how poorly he'd treated him. An odd thing to feel bad about when it had been so in line with his God, but that had been a bitter, unfulfilling thing that caused more grief than not. And if Peter is still being honest with himself tonight, he would rather this awkward charade end amicably than not. "I should go wait outside," he says, standing up, pushing his chair back in slowly.

Elias, who has been stirring water into the powder mix at the bottom of his mug to keep it from clumping, pauses so that he may be clearly heard and make it known that he is giving Peter his attention. "This hasn't been how either of us expected the night to go, but it's been a pleasant surprise—at least for me. I wouldn't mind a repeat performance the next time you're in town."

He is certainly right about that: Peter never expected his night to end up like this. He still vaguely feels like gelatin, exhausted in a bone-deep way that he can't wait to sleep off. Now, though, that _annoying_ urge comes back to kiss Elias, something he's ignored completely. But if he's still being _honest_ with himself, then it's justification enough when he steps closer into Elias' space and brings his hand up to his cheek so Peter can turn his head and move him into a better angle to kiss him at. A full press of lips that lasts only a couple of moments before he pulls away and says, "I'll call you."

Unexpected as it is, Elias allows Peter to move and to kiss him. The spoon clinks against the mug as Elias raises his arm—to what? To grab at Peter; make him stay? To touch him tenderly in kind? Before Elias can come to a decision the kiss is over, and his hand is left hovering in the air for another moment until he lets it drop.

Elias very badly wants to unpack what just happened, but he can save that for after Peter leaves. For now, he does not respond with any affectionate gesture beyond a slightly amused smile. "Off you go now," he says, and he's aware that he's echoing what Peter said to him on their first departure but Elias doesn't know if his memory is that good. "And don't forget your food."

It is as much as he expected in return, but now that it's out of his system, Peter steps back and clears his throat. He makes sure to grab the wrapped-up sandwich, making his way toward the door right after. For now, he has nothing else in particular to say to Elias, so he closes the door and heads to the elevator to get downstairs. When he steps outside, the cab is pulling up which is quite nice since he would rather not linger. And he smokes, and he eats his sandwich, and he gets lost in his thoughts all the way back home.

For once, Peter is already anticipating coming back from sea. What a sorry state to be in.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ridiculously hot art done by [destinyllama](https://twitter.com/kinkshameyeti/status/1307876094259929089) on twitter!
> 
> what up it's jen, you can find me on tumblr @jennyloggins, and on twitter at both @somegarbageisok on main and @slimejen for tma/video game posting.
> 
> Leto can be found on tumblr @auto-didact (general) and @divorcecravat (TMA), or on twitter @quickenedsilver.
> 
> many thanks to the kind folks over on the Eye Horror Discord for their help and their enthusiasm.
> 
> **Content warnings:**  
>  BDSM, degradation, light cock & ball torture, rimming, and snowballing.  
> Mentions of gender dysphoria, menstruation, and watersports. [return to top]


	10. Arnold Palmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias Bouchard and Conrad Lukas have a business picnic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'd like to announce that this fic is on official **HIATUS.** Life and the pandemic and everything else have been rough lately, and it's best to just put this story aside for now. We have every intention of getting back to it someday—we just don't know when that will be.
> 
> In the meantime, please stay safe, and enjoy this chapter.
> 
> Click to view content warnings.

Conrad Lukas is _sharp._ He always has been, ever since he was a child, from the time he was cognizant of his surroundings. A quiet, precocious little thing that had excelled in quite nearly everything he set his mind to—a fine example of a Lukas. Solitary, reserved to the point of being almost _grim,_ and eager to figure out what made people _tick._ A terrible little weasel who would spend two weeks sucking up to his nannies and tutors to learn everything he could about them before flaying them open with their insecurities pinpointed into daggers that struck without warning. It happened to work out rather well: at the very _least_ it was a show that Conrad never got attached to a single person for any stretch of time that mattered. 

It was a skill that served him well as his studies became more advanced and as his tutors let him study more complicated subjects as he peaked past adolescence and into young adulthood. His calling truly came to him when his curriculum shifted to maths and the sciences, allowing him to study chemistry, advanced mathematics, and _finally_ anatomy and the brain. 

Chemicals, and how they interacted with the human body. Absolutely _fascinating_ stuff.

This was a course of study that he pursued through higher education, earning his degrees from three different universities: two overseas that had a much more advanced program than he could find at home for his masters’ program and his doctorate. A workload that he shouldered simultaneously, tirelessly studying around the clock and absorbing as much information as he could.

He even found the time to get _married,_ having left his brother, as the patriarch, to find a suitable match for him. A Welsh girl named Eira Greenwood, properly educated and demure: it was clear from the start that this would be an arrangement of _convenience_ for them both. Their wedding happened during the summer while Conrad was still at university in England. One child, and a couple of years later another was planted in his wife while he had been on break from his studies in the States. 

To be born into a rich family and to want for _literally_ nothing, having received the best academic instruction that money could conceivably buy, earning exemplary marks as a result of his own hard work. Something that most anyone else would be proud of, and _yet..._

A bitter resentment permanently sits in Conrad’s chest with no chance of dislodging. The feeling is tucked deep inside him, past his lungs and his heart, interred somewhere in his very bones, the feeling having seeped in long before he knew how to name it. Noxious in how it bubbles up when Conrad thinks too hard on it and his anger spills over. 

_If only Peter had not been born._

Peter, his nephew, ten years his senior. A _maddening_ circumstance that was out of his control. His own birth was so delayed by his father taking a second wife after his first had passed away from illness, so it goes. His eldest brother passed before Conrad was ever born, he had an elder sister that was sent away, Nathaniel remained (and thankfully so, since Conrad has _no_ desire to _ever_ take the reins of handling family affairs), and he has a younger sister, still in university courses for engineering.

Most of the children born to the Lukas family end up serving in one way or another eventually, be it intentionally or when cold nights bring reflection to those who were cast out. Conrad exists in the infuriating middle, wanting to serve as best as he can and yet unable to call upon the blessings of his Patron that he is, in his own way, devoted to. Oh, he can hear the _whispers_ of the realm that is inaccessible to him, but he is not allowed to entangle himself in the tendrils of the Forsaken. He does not have the _gift,_ nor does he have his family’s blessing to try and work towards the enlightenment he feels he has been _cheated_ of. He has done _everything_ right. Gotten married, had his children, and gotten himself educated, and still it is not _enough._

Two distinct memories of Peter stand out that press down on his mind. 

One, his own father’s funeral when Conrad was a young teenager. Peter had been leaving the main reception room in a hurry, not looking where he was going and bumped into Conrad, making him spill his drink all over himself. Of all people, _Simon Fairchild_ gave him his kerchief from his pocket to mop up the mess when he’d appeared moments later to run off after Peter.

Having grown up as curious as he was, Conrad was inducted into the family truth at the same time as Peter. Nathaniel had decided it was better for Conrad to know sooner rather than waiting as they had done with Peter. Two birds, one stone. Conrad had shown _promise—_ perhaps even an inclination. But his early life had not borne the fruit his brother was looking for, and so his nurturing fell to the wayside. He still learned what he could about the different fears, and he knew about Fairchild’s avatarhood. So for Conrad to come in contact with an avatar, only to be immediately dismissed by him had _stung._ And Peter, once again, took the attention of everyone in the room and had no idea what to do with it. 

Peter was uncharismatic, continually refusing to be married off and propagate. He was given minimal responsibilities, a ship to captain comfortably while kept at arms’ length. And to get even an ounce of respect, Conrad had mastered jumping through academic flaming hoops in the hopes that he could do his work in peace, or that his brother wouldn’t nitpick him every time he so much as breathed independently. 

The other much more significant memory he has of Peter is after he had just come into his gifts. From the night Peter had been inducted (as Conrad later found out) and for the proceeding week after, it seemed that every single Lukas family member who had even a shred of belief in their Patron came by to talk to Peter. For a few hours each day, Peter was subjected to _mingling_ and answering questions for people. He was scrutinized, made to listen to plans made for his future, pinched and poked and prodded by relentless family members until Peter’s old and distant great uncle was banished to the Lonely before everyone’s eyes.

An unlucky casualty, but Peter… He had _howled_ his anguish. Screamed, _“Enough!”_ before invoking their God and tossing the old man in. Breathing heavy, panicked, hands over his ears and crouched down low, eyes shut tightly in pain. A soft chant of, “Shut up shut up _shut up,”_ between hyperventilated breaths. 

Peter had been sent to his room by himself, but after an hour of listening to the adults in the room reiterate their expectations ( _never_ pride, but met _expectations_ were pleasing nonetheless), Conrad wandered up to check on his nephew. Freshly eight years old and cocky about his knowledge set, as if he could figure out what was happening even then. When Conrad opened the door, Peter was on the floor smoking a cigarette, pushing his hand back and forth through the bristles of the carpet. As soon as the door creaked, Peter’s piercing eyes met his own as he growled out, _“Get out,_ or I’ll do the same to _you.”_

Of course Conrad had _bolted,_ leaving Peter to himself, but looking back on that memory when he finished his secondary education propelled him into his advanced academic studies. He decided he would make the secrets of the brain bend themselves to his understanding, and he has _certainly_ achieved it now, with prestigious pieces of paper to show for it. He is fairly certain he can accurately diagnose Peter’s underlying neurological issues if his opinion is ever wanted on the matter.

It isn’t, but Conrad’s bitterness can take a backseat to his much _grander_ designs for himself. He has accomplished enough to help generate income for the family business in such a way where it leaves him to his own work at the same time. Narcotics, their effect on the people who take them, and what chemical compounds would best push a person to their limits before _breaking._ Addiction and what makes it worse; what will so thoroughly isolate someone after coming down from the best high of their life. The extreme of _feeling_ and the crash after. What would make someone lose their mind to fear rather than euphoria? Could those feelings be combined?

And so, his research was approved by Nathaniel, the supplies were ordered, and now it is a waiting game that he is making particular preparations for. Conrad has done his research, and he knows that he must make use of neutral allies in order to make this a reality. That is why he does what he does.

The Distortion is _hiring,_ if he is to believe the whisperings of scientists of certain qualifications going missing, and Conrad applies to every single lab research position he can get his CV to. He ignores every single legitimate callback, and even the electronic mailings that are _so_ enthusiastic about Conrad taking an interest in their mission. It is only when he ends up with a bag over his head and too dizzy to stand does he allow himself to become _completely_ besotted by thinking about the heights that his research can be taken to, so sure of his captors’ willingness to strike a deal.

And he is proven _right,_ returned to Nathaniel with a representative named Gabriel so they can strike terms. The Distortion has its own (briefly seen by Conrad) interdimensional drug lab where it manufactures its potent narcotics, and it will continue with its R&D as planned while Conrad will be given the use of its much less dimensionally challenged labs. Only as long as the Lukas family helps in the manufacturing and distribution process, of course. The terms are agreeable, and Conrad will be allowed to devote time to his own projects as well.

However, with alliances also comes keeping a lookout for _competition._ Something that he does not want to be bothered with, but to Nathaniel, money is the most important thing besides their Patron. Money translates to power, and to have more money than another would put them in a better position to keep it. That is why Conrad contacts the Watcher during the last week of September after Peter has shipped off to Brazil. 

The Lukas family needs information, and they are more than willing to pay for it.

This is twice in two weeks that Elias is meeting with Lukases, and for once, he does not mind.

Because of the _interesting_ evening they had recently shared, Elias is starting to understand how to get his interactions with Peter to go amicably. The particular satisfaction with how _well_ the night had gone had lasted for days—even Rosie picked up on his chipper mood and had to ask about it. He answered that he’d had a good time at the film festival, which was the truth, and that he’d run into some old colleagues, which was also true. He’d just fucked one of them at the party and took them home with him, that’s all.

Naturally, Elias didn’t mention that part. But he did mention Lesley. Lovely woman. An up-and-comer in her field, he said.

He wonders if Conrad is going to be similar. From what he’s been told and what his own investigations have dug up on the gentleman, it’s probable.

Today he is to meet with him at ten a.m. on the south side of the Albert Memorial in Kensington Gardens. He would not have agreed to meet there three weeks ago, but thankfully, the populace has calmed down somewhat. They’re starting to understand that a royal funeral was a royal funeral, and they happen, and eventually they fade into the background and become part of the scenery. Memorials will be built in the coming years, he is sure. They’re probably going to do something interesting for Princess Diana, he thinks. She was, admittedly, better than a lot of them.

Elias starts packing up his things in his office at nine. He is wearing an olive suit today, with a copper-brown necktie. His accessories are gold: stud earrings, small-lensed round glasses, belt buckle. His other accessories are brown leather: belt, shoes, briefcase, gun holster. The only good thing about the fashion for loosely-fitting suits these days is the ability to hide a weapon, in Elias’ opinion. He’s not _expecting_ trouble—not in a public park, of all places—he simply has a policy of not meeting with new clients alone and unarmed. So he takes the revolver, and he takes the contract draft, and he lets Rosie know where he’ll be on his way out.

It’s a bit too far to walk from the Institute to Kensington Gardens, especially given he walked to work this morning. So he has a cab drop him off at the Royal Albert Hall across the road and he finds a coffeeshop to kill some time in. As he’s waiting for his latte to be made (an overly-sweet thing with ginger and cinnamon), he looks out through the dead marble eyes of a bull to get his first real look at Conrad Lukas.

He is blond, Elias immediately sees, and that gives new context to the conversation he had with Peter about hair colour. Blond and long-haired and wearing it in a low ponytail, and the suit he’s in is navy blue. He is sitting on the steps with a book in his lap. His vision, even divinely-granted, isn’t quite good enough to make out what’s written on the page, and nor can he see his face from this current angle. Elias doesn’t bother to go hunting around for other viewpoints: he has all he needs to pick him out amongst strangers, and that’s enough.

Elias prefers to drink his latte and take a bit of a stroll around the park rather than head over straightaway—wouldn’t want to seem _too_ keen. But he also doesn’t want to keep Conrad waiting for the entire time, and so, precisely five minutes early, he makes sure that Conrad can see him approaching along the path and up the steps with purpose, should he happen to look up from his reading.

“Mr. Lukas, I presume.” Elias doesn’t need to presume, of course, but it pays to be polite. He sets the briefcase down and holds it between his ankles so it doesn’t fall over and offers out his newly-freed hand for a handshake. “Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”

The family driver drops Conrad off close to Kensington Palace _far_ too early. He is fancying a walk: a good way to clear his head and go over his agenda with himself one more time. Meeting with someone from the Magnus Institute is a big deal in itself when it concerns the _family business._ This meeting is for the sake of extending his own ventures, but seeing as that will also increase the ancestral coffers, his brother should have no reason to complain.

With new ventures, though, come new threats—especially for a family business that revolves around opportunities both lucrative and highly _illegal._ And so, Conrad has set up his meeting with one Elias Bouchard, director of the very institute that keeps a handle on the sort of information he wants to buy and utilize. He knows what he has been told about the man, which is admittedly less than he would _like_ to be aware of. Of course, he knows that Elias took over for James Wright, and that was not _too_ long ago. Conrad is quite sure that his brother knows more than he is letting on, but to try to pry anything out of Nathaniel is a laughable effort at best.

That is fine with him though—Conrad does not _need_ to know _that_ badly as long as warily trusting him to give them information benefits his family. But that is not his innate desire: rather he wants to personally benefit so that he can start his research into the human psyche and what isolation can do to it. He wants to _understand_ what his family believes in, and what his family _does._ Conrad wants to know what exactly it is that drives people into the pits of despair, and what conditions are needed to replicate the deepest trenches of the fear of being forsaken—what will sow the seeds of malicious solitude into the hearts of men.

Above all else, he doesn’t want to understand for understanding’s sake out of the innate need to classify the experience. No, he wants to know how to serve his God. He wants to pinpoint what will break someone. It is his deepest desire to appease his Patron, to have a taste of the Lonely.

If Conrad researches hard enough;

If he can excavate the human brain and exhume what breaks the spirit;

If he can _replicate_ the conditions scientifically,

Then Conrad might be able to synthesize it.

And _oh,_ the things he could do with that.

Even he knows it is a pipe dream, but a man cannot be blamed for wanting to give it the ol’ _college try,_ as the Americans say. 

Conrad ends up at their agreed meeting place with hours to go before their scheduled time. But, of course, it is a _nice_ day, the air warm enough that he does not need anything more than his light suit jacket. He places his basket behind himself—he had considered having his driver go ahead and set up a spot to picnic at, but that makes it feel _terribly_ pre-arranged to impress. Conrad has no desire to kiss up to anyone.

Lifting the wicker lid, Conrad pulls a book out, some light further post-coursework reading that he never got to do while pursuing his degree. That, and enjoying the sheer _grief_ that still hangs in the air. Poor Diana, truly a hard moment for so many people to see the Princess befall tragedy. The mourning parties have been taking place even still, weeks after the event had happened—it makes for _great_ people-watching. Solemn souls mourning someone with _reverence._ The worth that humans place on people they don’t even know is absurd, to Conrad. Especially for someone like a royal family member.

He is sitting under the allegorical statue of Europe, a woman sitting on a decorated bull, flanked by maidens with swords and wreaths. Though all of the continental metaphoric statues are supposed to display traditional iconography, this statue had always felt more ...unaffiliated and independent. Estranged, a continent divorced from _warmth_ and embroiled in petty turmoil. The other statues bear a more inherent warmth that is missing from Europe’s representation. A subtle difference certainly makes for a symbolic picture if he squints. 

Elias Bouchard walks up, and Conrad takes in his appearance. Not a bureaucratic fiber out of place. It is what he expected, at least. He closes his book and places it down on the granite step, next to his hip. He does not stand up, and leaning forward and leaving his legs crossed, Conrad takes Elias’ hand and shakes it half-firm. “Mr. Bouchard, good morning. I thought perhaps we can find somewhere more open to sit and have a chat. I brought lunch,” he says, matter-of-factly for the last bit, pulling up the basket from the step behind him. He picks up his book and holds it to his chest leisurely, holding the handle of the basket with his other hand. “Shall we?”

A business _picnic_ would certainly be a novelty. Elias has done walk-and-talks; met with clients at sporting events; had many, _many_ teas and lunches out on patios before. He prefers the comfort of his office and the security it affords him most of all, naturally, but the day is nice and he is _curious_ about which brand of Lukas hospitality Conrad is bringing to the table.

Or the blanket, more like. Elias doesn’t mind helping to get that arranged under a broad and shady tree. He asks Conrad how his wife and children are doing to let him know he’s done his cursory background check and because he wants to hear, from Conrad’s own mouth, what he seems to think of them. Elias listens, and he settles, and he adjusts his suit to better conceal the firearm at his hip while he lets Conrad handle the unpacking of the basket.

Across the path there is the Albert Memorial itself, veiled in scaffolding and wood, as it had been for years now. It’s one of Scott’s works, though he and Jonah hadn’t been on speaking terms when construction on it started and he had been a stranger to him by the time it ended. Probably for the best. Jonah has always found it a gaudy thing, too densely decorated and churchlike for his tastes. Just for fun, he momentarily jumps into the patinated gold eyes of another dead royal to see how the restoration is coming: even in the shade the fence and structure _gleam._ Probably not too far off, then.

Back to Conrad and back to business, Elias sips his latte and gets his note-taking journal out of his briefcase. “How did your meeting with the Distortion go, by the way?” As a criterion for taking this meeting, he asked over the phone whether or not they’d had one, and knew only that the answer was a yes. It’s much easier to get the story from Conrad directly instead of spending the hours of mystery-solving to come by an approximation at best.

As they walk, they silently pass people who are laughing even during their morose reasoning to gather. The pockets of joy to be found are distasteful, but Conrad supposes that nobody can mourn _all_ the time. They find a spot across from the Albert Memorial where the grief in the air tastes a little more poignant, carrying the unease of people who so blandly depend on their infatuation for royals to keep them entertained. Elias helps him spread the picnic blanket, which is useful of him, and they sit down under the shade of the tree that feels a _touch_ too chilly.

It is surprising that Elias asks how his family is doing: his _attached_ family. Wife, children—it occurs to Conrad that he has not seen them in _weeks._ Not since before his self-imposed mission to contact the Distortion. “They are alright, I assume. I have been _quite_ busy the past few weeks with my ventures—it does not make for good visitation with my offspring and my wife.” His lover, well, Conrad has seen him quite a bit more, but some things _must_ be kept private.

While he speaks, Conrad unpacks the basket, bringing out his planned meal for two. Lemon scones with a jar of peach preserves to spread on them, carefully wrapped radish tartine with the baguette split and toasted lighter than he himself prefers (as a _rare_ courtesy, since he quite imagines most people don’t want to break their teeth on over-crisp bread), a small assortment of fruit, and a thermos of chilled Kenyan Tinderet tea with a splash of lemon for brightness and two disposable cups. 

He chooses a scone first, sawing it open with the preserves knife before spreading some on and taking a bite. While he chews, he thinks about how to answer Elias and decides for honesty. “It was _fun,_ but It took far too long to abduct me. I had to go around to every university with a botany or chemistry department to find sketchy academic researcher postings. There were lots of openings for work that I had _genuine_ callbacks on, what a pity…” Taking another thoughtful bite of his scone, he continues after, “We came to an agreement regarding distribution and R&D which suits my family and It just fine.”

Conrad’s particular vocabulary: ‘visitation’, ‘offspring’—tell Elias much about the gentleman’s opinions on his family. Elias goes over what he knows: that Conrad has never appeared in any of the Archives’ statements, which doesn’t _discount_ him from being powerful in his own right: prior to the one Elias had penned himself, there weren’t any about Peter written either. Nor are there any records of him in the Usher Foundation’s files, he discovered when he made his inquiries, seeing as Elias is aware of Conrad’s American educational background. He knows that Conrad’s wife and children, legally at least, kept their residence at Moorland House even while Conrad was studying abroad. It could very well be that the distance implied by his word choice was because of the distance as a literal thing, being an ocean away for years. Or perhaps he’d disliked her as a partner from the start—not unusual with how often the Lukases arranged their marriages. Alternatively, it could be that he dislikes the whole _institution_ of the marriage in the first place. Or perhaps his personal tastes lay elsewhere.

Elias has his suspicions about that. But he doesn’t try to actively go searching for the answer. For politeness’ sake.

Although they are at a _business picnic._ That’s pretty telling.

Elias takes the preserves knife from Conrad once he’s done with it and starts on preparing one of the scones. If he knows he is to have a lunch out with somebody important, Elias generally doesn’t bother having breakfast, and today is no exception. Meals, for him, are an indulgence, and he appreciates the care that has gone into the selection. Elias is liberal with his application of the preserves, and he makes sure he keeps a plate close to his chin when he takes the first bite. That’s nice, actually. Almost as pleasant as the intrigue that comes from being teased with a story.

“Baiting a being like that is certainly _a_ method of getting in touch,” Elias says through a smile. He knows a thing or two about that. Remembers sitting alone at the Fairchild wedding, looking like he could use a drink.

“Congratulations on managing to leave unscathed, more or less. Did you see much of the operation during your visit?”

Conrad watches Elias take a bite of the scone, noting with smug satisfaction that it is _quite_ adequate. For someone such as himself who truly does have access to a vast supply of money, it is a bit absurd to use his time on baking and cooking when he could hire someone to do that for him. The act itself is a _much-_ needed hobby to distract him when he has had quite enough of himself and the angst of inadequacy in the eyes of his family’s Patron. Soothing, even, to create something, even though it brings a very personal touch to his life that he is sure his brother would frown on him for. 

Putting his plate down, he grabs the thermos and pours his guest and himself each a cup of the tea. He leaves Elias’ question hanging for a moment as he says, “Kenyan Tinderet tea, there is quite a bit of caffeine in this one since I brewed it strong, so if you are up all night, don’t say I didn’t warn you…” He takes a sip from his cup, letting the earthy, subtly sweet flavour wash over him. Smooth, lively with the lemon, and of course brewed perfectly. 

Sighing, he watches people walk past, feeling the faint whispers of grief trailing behind them. Still intangible, still _far_ out of reach for him. Quietly exasperating, and why he is here in the first place. “I was heading to the market near my flat in Vauxhall when I had a bag tossed over my head, and then it felt like the world fell away beneath my feet. Like vertigo, but if it were dialled up to twelve. Almost like my bones were slithering between space itself, which I have no doubt might have happened. I regret that I would not be able to tell you _where_ It took me, but it didn’t feel quite real in the first place.

“As if reality itself had become crooked.

“Eventually, the bag came off, and I was walking through the most peculiar twisting hallways. The laws of physics certainly did not apply to them, and most of the laboratories were incomprehensible to my eyes. All I could really see were bits of, well, indescribable geometry that looked like it was _alive._ Breathing, perhaps, undulating with the most puzzling pattern work swirling beneath _and_ over it at the same time. If I looked too long at any one thing to try to understand It, the less it made sense. So, unfortunately, I cannot tell you much about how It operates yet.”

Taking a breath, Conrad takes another sip of his tea, thinking about the experience, again wondering for himself if he would ever be allowed to stray into those parts of the interdimensional labs. He does divulge another detail for Elias, who no doubt is going to bring this back to his Institute to privately file away. “My guide was a ghoulish little man named Gabriel, but he told me to be wary of those who steal faces and skin. Take that as you will, he did not say anything else nor have I noticed anything more strange than usual in connection with the likely meaning. But, I suppose that is why I am seeking you out now.”

When Conrad begins to recount his experience, Elias truly wishes that he had a tape recorder on him to immortalize those words. But it’s practical for him to not, given the illicit nature of the business they are to be speaking about today. The description is pretty consistent with the sorts of things they have on file about the Distortion’s effects. Elias had hoped he’d be a little more helpful with providing specifics, but that’s fine.

A ‘flat in Vauxhall’, though, that’s notable. It’s closer to the Institute than to the park the two of them are sitting in. Prior to this meeting, Elias hadn’t bothered tracking down any of Conrad’s other properties, assuming that if he needed to get in touch with him, he could send word to Moorland House—but it’s good to know that if he needs to call a face-to-face meeting with the gentleman, then at least he’s local. Elias can find out exactly where he lodges later if Conrad doesn’t tell him.

“Mm, Mr. Gabriel is often the Distortion’s representative where business matters are concerned. Or, well. In matters dealing with regular people, more generally. You’ll probably be contacted by him again.” It’s useful to have an ally capable of performing handshakes that don’t unnerve people. Elias doesn’t have the personal experience with the Distortion to confirm, but he’s read about it being an _experience._ He takes a sip of tea, starts on the other half of his scone. “That’s just plain useful advice, if a tad unnerving. I would recommend being thorough about background checks while hiring.”

As Elias eats, his eyes go wandering about the park now that Conrad isn’t talking. Takes in the dog-walkers; the wanderers. Sees that there is nobody close by keeping an eye on this meeting. Good. Elias turns his attention back to Conrad. “You were rather general in your invitation, so I’m curious as to what you would like to get out of today’s meeting. I’m not sure of how much you know about how the Institute operates, but I am authorized to draw up contracts and sign on the Watcher’s behalf. Think of me as a... talent agent, of sorts.”

Elias does give him a good piece of advice about the background checks while hiring, because Conrad will at some point have to hire some assistants that he can trust. Of course, it is in Conrad’s nature to be _thorough,_ but it is a fair point to keep in mind that he will have to be especially careful in choosing people he may work closely with. “A spot of advice I will gladly accept, Mr. Bouchard, but I will get to my point.”

He, of course, takes his time getting to the point, pulling out and unwrapping the radish tartines he had prepared. A fresh baguette bought just this morning from his second favourite bakery, rather not wanting to waste his _favourite_ impressing anyone but himself, split down the middle and cut into segments. Even having been prepared hours ago, the light toasting still is holding up, the spread of soft butter hasn’t soaked too much into the crumb thankfully, and the radish slices have stayed perfectly in place atop the base. One segment goes onto his plate, the other sitting in the cloth for Elias to pick at whenever he wishes. 

The wind gently picks up, a slight chill at the back of his neck informing him of autumn’s pending arrival. Musing out loud, he says, “I will be happy to see summer go.” The heat and humidity in England are surprisingly not as bad as it had been where he had been staying in America while completing his degree, but it is _dreadful_ nonetheless. Sighing quietly, Conrad takes another careful sip of his tea, a bite of his tartine, dabs at his mouth with a cloth napkin.

“I know little about the Institute, admittedly, but I know that you are able to consult with your Watcher to find out certain information. I rather think I know enough about our friend the Distortion—what I am looking for instead is to know about potential _competition.”_ Looking around the park, he makes sure nobody is lingering too close to him while readjusting his legs, starting to feel the pins and needles of sitting in the same spot for too long. Nobody is too close, which is just fine for their purposes. 

“My brother Nathaniel’s other business ventures aside, as soon as my nephew returns from Brazil, I will be jumping headfirst into this project of mine. Peter’s _New Horizon_ stunt was because of a rival having to be put in their place, but that was only one company out of however many may want to either demand a cut or who will be angry about us breaking into the market over them. I have no intention of backing down, nor any intention of sharing my work or my profits with anyone. Whatever Nathaniel decides about who to officially ally himself and the family with is his business, but I am looking to get the upper hand, so to speak.

“I want to stay as many steps ahead of business rivals as I can. Whether or not that means me directly employing you as a retainer depends on if you are allowed or even _interested_ in such a posting with my family. While we are benefactors of your Institute, we are prepared to negotiate either a higher contribution yearly, or a direct salary if the scope of work demands it. The exchange would be for keeping tabs on business rivals and informing us of movements that may impact our revenue stream; there _will_ be people who do their best to ruin me before I am able to make progress on my research, and I would rather not have to get my hands dirty on my own doorstep if I know about retaliation before it happens.”

Elias works on the scone, works on the fruit. He listens, and looks at his notebook, but does not open it sticky-fingered. Starts in on the tea. It’s a far cry from what he usually drinks, but it is pleasant, he must admit.

“Respectfully, Mr. Lukas, one can never know too much about new allies—or old ones.” Elias’ sharp, sharp gaze fixes on Conrad’s face, taking in the measure of his hazel eyes, green-tinged in the daylight. Windows to the soul, it’s said. Whatever Elias sees in him, it isn’t clear, because he is all business.

“The Magnus Institute maintains a number of files on certain beings of interest, and I’m pleased to inform you that we do have both of your new acquaintances in our system. They generally update infrequently—that’s the problem with voluntarily given accounts, I’m afraid—although the Distortion has been _quite_ the popular topic of discussion lately among the people coming through our doors. We would be happy to provide you with access to these files as part of our agreement.” Elias, naturally, reviewed both of these files (among others) in preparation for this meeting. It pays to do one’s research.

“I’ve always preferred to regard the Lukas family’s generous contributions as a sort of retainer fee. Or at the very least, incentive to give your jobs priority. Within reason.” Setting boundaries is important, especially since Conrad is new to this particular business relationship. Elias doesn’t need _two_ Lukases knocking on his door with no prior notice, expecting him to drop everything. “The sort of thing you’re asking after has the potential to grow into a rather _large_ undertaking, so I would be more comfortable referring you to our hourly rates rather than a flat fee. But if you would also like us to keep an eye on the movements of certain players more generally, then an adjustment to your family’s level of patronage in exchange for monthly reports is also possible. To be expedited if any time-sensitive information comes into our view, naturally.”

“Whichever way will be of most benefit to me is preferable,” Conrad says plainly, “If that means the hourly rates, then that is fine, or if it means upping our contribution. I expect my projects to be quite lucrative for Nathaniel, I am sure he won’t care. But I would _love_ to see the files on my new acquaintances if you can so kindly send a copy along. And yes, I am asking you to keep an eye on certain people in a general sense as well. Anything that will give us the upper hand in our operations.”

He is, of course, here exclusively for business, but he does take some time to evaluate his companion. The absolute _nerve_ of Elias to not comment on the tea is an offence that he will hold on to for the day; a waste of his favourite black tea. Otherwise, his choice in suit colour is… tasteless. Or perhaps that is still the annoyance at the tea, it’s hard to tell. Perhaps he is just annoyed because of who Elias Bouchard is. Yes, he knows very little of the man, but Nathaniel had told him to watch out for him. He knows his identity, though it is impolite to bring it up in public, so he will refrain from that. Besides, there would be no point.

“I suppose I should tell you some about my project, but not for the ears of anyone else. I assume you can be trusted in keeping matters confidential.” Pausing to take a drink, Conrad gathers his thoughts and redacts what he must about his goals. “I won’t bore you with the specifics of my schooling as I am _sure_ your profile on me has all of the details, Mr. Bouchard. But with my expertise in the fields of chemistry and my knowledge of the human brain, I am setting out to test the limits of the side effects of drugs on the human psyche.

“If I can identify the proteins responsible for certain emotions, and then create a drug that simulates the responses of those chemicals in the brain, then perhaps I can find a way to serve my God, as it goes.” He pauses to take another bite of his lunch, letting the implication hang in the air. He will not tell Elias that he intends to find an alternate route to becoming in tune with the Lonely—that is not his concern.

“Once Peter is back with my equipment, I will finally be able to get started. The manifest has something about Cape Verde, to French Guiana, down to Brazil, et cetera. He should be back in just over three months, according to my brother, and that is with leaving room for the mid-Atlantic hurricane season. If I’m not mistaken, he should actually be headed into a rather nasty one soon, pity. Regardless, it is only once he is back that I can start my research, so I have time to spare with research into my competitors. This is not a time-imperative matter, but I would appreciate such information before December.”

Conrad spelling out his pet project’s true aims is _fascinating,_ actually, though Elias had some vague suspicions about why the Lukases would want to branch out into the drug market. That family doesn’t enter into business ventures without there being some larger purpose—Nathaniel’s own project of founding Solus Shipping PLC was to give the _Tundra_ space in which to operate.

Given that he hasn’t had possession of it for long and figuring out the particular cocktail of psychiatric medications that allow him to optimally function is an ongoing work in progress, Elias’ experience with recreational drugs in this body is limited: cannabis was a given with the old Elias’ Bouchard’s habits, and relatively recently he’d dipped into his opium stash for the first time in a while. His life has been largely calm as of late, barring the _New Horizon_ project and subsequent emotional (and physical) turmoil. But Elias can recall plenty of times throughout his lives, both original and stolen, when enthusiasm for new experiences overrode his common sense and the crashes which followed. Feeling very alone and pathetic indeed. Conrad may just be on to something there.

While he’s been listening, Elias unwraps one of the tartines for himself and takes a delicate bite, surprised by how well-executed something this simple is. Conrad is spoiling him. He’ll have to think about nice restaurants if he ever calls a meeting in the future and Elias is expected to choose. With the tartine in one hand and a pen in the other, notebook open on his knee, Elias jots down _“Spiral dossiers”_ and _“December production start”_ in his personal shorthand.

“I will say,” he begins when there is a break in the conversation, “that the Watcher’s strength lies in _specifics._ You must have a list of persons of interest ready, surely, and our research team is happy to fill in the gaps on other established figures who may take an interest in a new player on the market. Having specific names and specific types of information to be sought after would be very helpful.” A pause, a sip of tea, and he continues.

“Would you like to know a person’s personal information? Their movements? Passwords? Blackmail material? Naturally, I’d imagine that would depend on the person in question, but it’s something to think about. The more targeted the search, the better the results will be. Given enough time, the Watcher can collect intelligence on nearly anything—that’s not a boast, that’s a fact. Simply ask your family members about the sorts of results we have provided on past assignments.” Elias wears his pride openly, in his bearing and his smile.

 _“However._ Part of the price of receiving the Institute’s assistance is the volunteering of personal information about your _own_ company and operations—once you have those details established, of course. The more we know about your business practices, the better we can identify the signs of any attempts to interfere with them. Again, this information is accessible to us, but that time would be much better spent investigating your potential rivals, wouldn’t you agree?” Elias gives Conrad a moment to take that in while he takes another bite of the tartine, crisp and sharp.

“Don’t worry, this is standard practice when taking on new clients. Ask Nathaniel, if you like. We already have a frankly _ridiculous_ amount of information on file about Solus Shipping.”

Conrad takes a moment to think about all of that, popping some fruit into his mouth and humming in thought while he chews. “I have no issues with the volunteering of information, as I assume that as benefactors of your institution, you likely have a file on all of us that is _miles_ long. Whatever information you may want from me, I am sure we can negotiate it to keep my sense of privacy while allowing you the insight you require. Besides, I know that my family and most of its members have large files regardless, I am under no assumption that I am a special case.”

Not like Peter at least, and the mere thought of his nephew’s capabilities is enough to make him grimace into his tea as he takes a sip. This is, after all, why Conrad is here in the first place. He wants to distance himself from Peter and his family at all costs. Ideally, finding a way to connect with his Patron while cutting himself away would be for the best. As much as he would be allowed to, though—he has never had trouble with maintaining permission for himself since he has never been a family priority.

Having children, oh, that had been _enough,_ dare he say. The moment he had gotten married to his wife and stayed around long enough in their marital bed for her to get her pregnant twice, his obligations were near-completely fulfilled. His world-class education, of course, had also been important to Nathaniel in the sense that avenues to make money for their family remained open. His interests happened to coincide with Nathaniel’s plans for him, so it was no bother for him to continue on in his courses relatively in peace. Otherwise, nobody had special demands of him beyond what he continued to do as long as he kept his escapades under lock and key. A stipulation that suits Conrad just fine, really.

Playing silent, secondary son to Peter who seemed to get _everything_ he wanted no longer affected him as much as it used to. He can remember the moment that Peter learned to assert himself in his early twenties at some point after Conrad’s father’s funeral—Peter’s grandfather. Peter said he would not get married, nor would he have any children, and Nathaniel relented. Perhaps there is a small amount of envy still there, but then, Peter had been born with the gifts of their Patron. He had been _chosen_ to be in tune so heavily with a forsaken God, leaving Conrad to play catch-up. 

His wife and children are seen sparingly, and the kids have long since learned by now that he does not desire to spend time with them—at least, the oldest has—the youngest, last he had seen her, still held bright eyes that still filled with tears at his neglect. His wife had never been under the illusion that there was any love to be sought, and as far as Conrad knows now, she keeps herself entertained with her lovers just as he does himself. 

“Everything that can be spared about routines of specific people, blackmail material as well. I will put together a short list of candidates as soon as I can, perhaps a list of four or five people that I want to keep an eye on the most. I realize that it is quite an undertaking, and I don’t want to waste your time on people that will give you nothing. Again, I am willing to negotiate time put in versus compensation, and whatever you recommend, as this is my first request, will be considered in high esteem. I wouldn’t wish to waste your time any more than necessary, Mr. Bouchard.”

Elias finds it charming that Conrad is talking about keeping his _sense_ of privacy. Somebody has given him the full run-down on how the Watcher operates, clearly. Before coming into this meeting, he’d already planned on tracking Conrad back to his home to get a start on filling out that file, since Elias gets the sense that he wouldn’t volunteer that address. Good to acclimatize him to the feeling of being watched early, too, when Conrad was more likely to pass it off as lingering thoughts about the meeting and his mind playing tricks on him.

Elias knows how this goes. The times when the people he’s observing have a clear idea of what is going are few and far between. Before the incidents with watching Peter—who had _reason_ to believe that he was being observed, in the times he’d spoken up—it’d been years since the Watcher’s gaze had last been noticed. And even in Peter’s case, there were a lot of false positives when Elias had _not_ been observing him. Lingering paranoia. The Eye does like that.

“A focus on four or five people is certainly possible.” He says with a nod and sets the half-eaten tartine down on its napkin. He is thorough about cleaning his fingers before he opens up his briefcase to withdraw the contract draft in its folder, gives it one last check to make sure the specifics are correct, and offers it out to Conrad to peruse.

“The Institute’s hourly rate for favoured clients is one thousand pounds.1 That includes the efforts of our mundane research team as well as the Watcher’s personal attention. I’m more than happy to waive the typical retainer fees, given your family’s patronage. For a project like this, the Watcher would be willing to devote up to ten hours monthly towards it. Any more than that is going to offer diminishing returns. Typical surveillance is a whole lot of watching people do nothing interesting, I’m told, and the Watcher prefers to spend their time as efficiently as possible.” Which is true, honestly. Elias only has so many hours in the day and an array of administrative responsibilities to handle.

“Marvelous, I wouldn’t want to have the Watcher’s time wasted since it would mean I wasted my own. Like I said, I will get you the full list of people I would like information on, and then we can go from there.” Conrad takes a moment to sip at his tea again while grabbing the contract from Elias. There is no need for anyone else to look this over, not in their world, so he only glances through the fine print. He is _well_ aware of the consequences and of what is at stake. And it is all a necessary price to pay to reach his goal.

He takes his book out of the basket to have a hard surface to write on as well as the pen he kept in there. The pen is not specifically for this: more for writing notes to himself in the margins of his book, but it comes in handy to sign the contract and hand it back to Elias, putting his book and pen away back after.

Actually… Conrad pops the last piece of fruit into his mouth before he begins packing the lunch supplies away now that it seems they are both quite finished here. He has no desire to stick around any longer than necessary now that the pact has been made, so to speak. “Ten thousand pounds a month is reasonable for ten hours of work. I agree that anything more than that sounds tedious rather than effective. If I needed that kind of labour, I would have gone to a PI instead. Thank you for joining me for lunch, Mr. Bouchard.”

“Not a problem. Thank you for hosting—I do appreciate dining with men of _excellent_ taste. The scones, in particular, were a nice touch.” Elias is laying it on a bit thick, but he does genuinely mean that. It’d be a lie to say that Elias doesn’t enjoy it when clients are extravagant with their wealth during business meals (it’s a rare indulgence for him, for luxurious food in general is), but he honestly does appreciate it when they take care to craft something out of the meeting and build an atmosphere. Elias can infer a great deal, on occasion, from what sorts of things his clients see fit to bring to the table. Figuratively, in this case.

Elias gladly accepts the contract back and tucks it away. It’s nice to deal with somebody who isn’t going to try to pick apart all the minutiae and debate every little piece of fine print. “How would you prefer I contact you, Mr. Lukas? I have a slight preference for sending reports electronically, but I would be happy to mail or fax them to you if that is more convenient.”

Excellent taste, now that _is_ a compliment that Conrad will take wholeheartedly. The whole purpose of this outing had been to size Elias Bouchard up in person in a casual setting. He is very… precise, particular in a way that speaks of his experience with his clientele over decades rather than the paltry amount of time he has been the Head of his Institute. Smartly dressed, incredibly prepared down to the presumptuous contract to sign. Of course, who would Conrad be to request his time and then be wishy-washy about it? Especially coming into this requesting a very desirable and costly service. Considering the rest of his family does quite the same on regular enough occasions, he is well aware of the risks. 

Still though, Conrad takes a slight pause in the question directed at him before answering, “I do prefer physical copies of information. I apologize for your preference, but I would prefer either a hard copy directly delivered, or a fax if you must. I will admit that I dislike electronic mailings, though I am well aware that it is about to become commonplace for business connections.” Ending on a sigh, Conrad finally finishes packing away everything but the blanket before reaching into his pocket for his singular business card for just this occasion, handing it over to Elias. “However, my phone number, e-mail address, and fax number are listed, as well as my post office box. Let me know when is best for an additional followup for any information that you require from me, as well as I will be in contact with you shortly with my list.”

Elias accepts the business card and lays it down atop the notebook page, closing it afterwards to keep it pinned in place. “Excellent—I’ll be looking forward to it. I will send a copy of the contract as well as the current files on your new business associates along as soon as possible. Please let the office know if any of your contact information changes—should the Watcher discover anything particularly time-sensitive, it would be in your best interest to be easily reachable.”

As he speaks, Elias withdraws a business card holder from the front pocket of the briefcase: a vintage thing, gold and engraved with a sunburst of Art Deco geometry. He opens the clasp to remove one and offers it Conrad’s way. One side is for his direct office contact information, with the other being the same as the Magnus Institute cards more generally, mailing address and hours and all. Elias puts the case back into its proper place and does the same with the notebook he’s hardly made use of.

Elias does not rise to his feet as gracefully as he would like, given the awkwardness of the position and the lingering soreness in his thighs from a recent evening’s worth of training. He manages to keep the grimace off his face but neglects to conceal the bottom edge of the gun holster on his ascent—not an issue once he’s straightened up and smoothed down the lines of his suit jacket, but an error which escapes his notice all the same. Not that he would care much if Conrad knew: a number of Lukases in the current generation aren’t afraid to bloody their hands if need be, and the same goes for himself.

“I wish you a pleasant rest of your day,” Elias says on-script, “and best of luck in your future ventures.” He doesn’t need to confirm that they are finished here, and nor does he think to ask _permission_ to leave—he simply inclines his head, turns his back on Conrad, and begins to leisurely make his way back to the street, keeping his tattooed eye on the Lukas all the while.

Elias continues watching him from the back seat of a taxi on his way back to the Institute. Tracks him through the gazes of advertisements and animals nearby. And in his office, a time later, Elias takes out his notebook, sets Conrad Lukas’ business card delicately on his desk, and writes down the route he’s taken back to his Vauxhall home, and his address, and all the details of Conrad’s flat that he can notice before the gentleman starts to suspect anything off about his headache.  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Footnotes:**  
>  1 The Watcher’s hourly rate given here is ~10 times what could be expected from a quality private investigator in London. Monthly, this works out to about £19,500 GBP or $23,500 USD today. [return to text]
> 
> what up it’s jen, you can find me on tumblr @jennyloggins, and on twitter at both @somegarbageisok on main and @slimejen for tma/video game posting.
> 
> Leto can be found on twitter @quickenedsilver, and tumblr @auto-didact (general) and @divorcecravat (TMA), or on twitter @quickenedsilver.
> 
> **Content warnings:**  
>  Canon-typical murder, child abuse, funerals, kidnapping, panic attacks, and stalking.  
> Mentions of death of a public figure and drug use.  [return to top]


End file.
